


The Pirate's Bride

by justwanderingneverlost



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Princess Bride (1987), The Princess Bride - William Goldman
Genre: Book and Movie, F/M, Game of Thrones - Freeform, Ghost is the Best Boy, Jonerys, Jonerys Remix 2020, No Incest, Princess Bride remix, R Plus L Does Not Equal J, joffrey and ramsay are the torture twins, jon and arya aren't related sorry, jon and dany are westley and buttercup, neither are arya and sansa, no smut(gasp), sansa is just mentioned briefly, set in westeros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 61,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23623195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwanderingneverlost/pseuds/justwanderingneverlost
Summary: A classic tale of true love and high adventure.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 172
Kudos: 222
Collections: Jonerys Remix 2020





	1. The Bride

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya peeps! My turn for a remix :D I knew the moment Ashley told me she’d be doing this event exactly which couple/remix I'd choose and screamed dibs immediately. Afterall, I one hundred percent believe it planted the seed within my heart to love everything there is about stories and storytelling, specifically telling them through fanfiction because come on....
> 
> "I'M TELLING YOU, YOU'RE MESSING UP THE STORY. NOW GET IT RIGHT!"
> 
> That line should be the fanfic writer's motto. No question in my mind.
> 
> What I did not expect to happen when I began this fic was the roller coaster it took me on. 
> 
> The Princess Bride is my favorite fictional everything—book, movie, romance... My first official OTP. It stole my innocent little twelve year old heart way back when and stayed there. I just didn't realize quite how much I loved it until I tried to fic it(which I have wanted to do for YEARS)and not to mention do our precious beans justice. I have giggled with glee and sobbed my heart out and even got ragey a time or two, lol. But it's done and I'm pretty certain I adore it maybe as much as the originals, not that I could've ever written a word of it without the masters William Goldman and Rob Reiner. I very nearly threw in the towel and shelved this several times because my ass was not(still isn't)worthy to touch their work in any shape, form, or fashion. But I had made a promise to my best friend and myself, I had to keep it.
> 
> So, I decided this fic would be in praise of their masterpieces instead. Which means many of their words are most definitely included, because how could I not? There are just so many classic, iconic lines and passages... There was no way I could leave them out. No way. So this fic is absolutely a tribute to their greatness and a conglomeration of all my most favorite parts and scenes and lines from the book and movie, with some of my favorite GoT characters thrown in. 
> 
> Bear in mind I had to twist and tweak some of the GoT characters, familiar relationships, and timelines to make them work in the world of Princess Bride. Choosing who would be who was so stressful! There's only one or two I still wonder if I should've "recast" but on the whole I think they fit their roles perfectly. I hope you think so to.
> 
> A huge amount of love to Ashley and Frost for their guidance, beta work, and especially for putting up with all my endless whinging during this. I don't know why they love my whiney ass, but I adore them for it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany learns some truths about life, some shocking, some sweet, and some absolutely devastating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my loves, Ashley and Frost. 
> 
> You mean the world to me and I couldn't be more grateful you're in my life.

_Adults rarely ever tell children the truth. Yet, they insist that children always speak it. “You must not tell lies!” they scold. All the while, they fib left and right._

_“Everything will be fine,” they say. “It will get better, you’ll see.” Or: “You’ll grow up and be rich and beautiful and have a wonderful life full of love and happiness,” they coo. “You’re the most intelligent child I’ve ever known. You’ll find a rich handsome husband (or beautiful wife) who will love you dearly. Nothing bad will ever happen to you, my dear.”_

_What a crock of horseshit!_

_Well, for most at least. It would only be fair to admit that for a small few it does work out that way, though the happiness part is still strongly questionable. In short, life is not fair. Never has been, never will be. Do not listen to anyone who says otherwise._

_Do you know what else? No one knows when their world will change. Sometimes it changes and it takes them hours, days, or even weeks before they realize it. It sneaks in slowly, as the autumn takes hold of summer. Or it comes crashing in like the waves of an angry ocean during a storm. The thing is, most are never ready for it either way and certainly are not prone to welcome it when it decides to make itself known._

  
  


—

  
  


Being the stubborn girl she was, change more or less slapped her in the face. And then it did it again and again. 

She, being one Daenerys Targaryen (or, thank goodness for us, Dany for short). Born to fairly well off parents, Dany was a free spirit who would much rather ride her horse than anything else. She was not fond of lessons, rules, or especially bathing. With the sticky heat that seemed to be a constant despite the ocean breezes, that particular quirk was very much frowned upon by her mother.

One thing that did please Rhaella about her unruly daughter was this: Daenerys was the most beautiful child ever born in the Crownlands. In fact, she was the most beautiful in all of the South. By seventeen she was the twentieth most beautiful in all of Westeros. And she would only rise in the rankings as she grew into a lady.

From the first moment their daughter made the list, her parents immediately began thinking of whom she could marry to fill the family coffers even more.

She was certain to land a big fish.

That was exactly their hopes as they drug her out in front of their home to greet the Red Viper of Dorne and his Lady Ellaria on that sweltering summer day. Her parents were practically giddy, it was all they could think about. Surely the Viper had heard of their daughter’s beauty and knew of a proper suitor for her. He just _had_ to be there to announce this suitor’s intentions.

But marriage was the last thing Dany wanted. Her mother was married and abysmally unhappy so why on earth would she want that? Love wasn't real. At least she thought so before the Viper's carriage pulled up in front of her.

By the time the day was over, however, Dany would become so unsettled by a change of heart she would fail to notice some very important happenings.

The Viper left his carriage gracefully. He stood very still, only his eyes looking about. He wasn’t a large man but had a swarthy appearance—dark skin, black hair, and blacker eyes. His golden robes only added to his dramatic visage. How he stood to wear them in the oppressive heat was a mystery.

His Lady descended next and at first Dany found her to be the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. She was tall and slender as a willow, had perfectly olive skin and carried herself like the royal her husband no doubt told her she was. Her lips were painted a perfect red that set off the deep black of her expertly arranged hair. Her bright green, cat-like eyes were lined with coal and all the colors of the world were muted in her gown.

Dany found her hands dusting dirt from her own soiled frock.

“Curtsy, dear,” Rhaella whispered harshly to her.

Dany did as she was told and pleasantries were exchanged between the elders. It did not escape her parents that the Viper could not stop looking at their daughter. Which, while pleasing, was also surprising. Her hair was uncombed and even unwashed, much to Rhaella’s horror. At just seventeen, there was still the remains of baby fat. Her once bright white dress, now a dingy beige, had been self-altered in order to keep her cool; sleeves ripped out and the skirt hacked off roughly at the knees. And of course she was barefoot. She looked as filthy and unkempt as an orphan. Nothing was really there but potential, but the Viper still could not tear his eyes away. 

It was only Dany who noticed that Lady Ellaria had eyes for Jon, the stable boy who lurked in the shadows of the barn as he always did.

And while a moment before she'd been the most beautiful woman Dany had ever seen, the Lady suddenly became nothing more than a gaudy bauble balanced on two spindly sticks in Dany’s eyes.

“Is that him?” the Lady asked, pointing behind them.

“Who, ma’am?” Dany’s father, Aerys asked her. Dany knew exactly whom she'd meant.

“The stable boy, the one that is magic with horses.”

Dany’s father glanced back toward the lone figure peering around the edge of the barn door.

“That is our stable boy.”

“Bring him here.”

“But he’s… he’s not properly dressed,” Rhaella whispered, becoming more embarrassed with the state of her charges by the moment.

“I have seen naked chests before,” the Lady replied with a roll of her eyes. “Boy!” she yelled, shaking her hand at Jon. “Come here.” It was an order, her fingers snapping sharply.

Jon did as he was told, coming forward until he was a few steps behind Dany. He stopped, his head respectfully lowered. Dany did not miss the flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. From his lack of clothes, she assumed. He only wore a pair of ragged pants and worn out boots. His hands were clasped behind his back. She knew they were calloused and dirty. They always were.

“What is your name, boy?”

“Jon, my Lady,” he mumbled, not looking up, black messy curls hiding his face, several sticking to his neck with sweat.

“Well, Jon, perhaps you can help us with our problem.” She crossed to him. The fabric of her sleeve grazed his bare arm as she walked slowly around him, smiling just so. “We are all passionately interested in the subject of horses.”

Aerys and Rhaella finally stopped watching the Viper watching their daughter and looked at one another in confusion. _Horses? They were supposed to be there about Dany and her suitor. Weren't they?_

Their daughter, at that moment, was frozen, her eyes locked on the gaudy bauble prowling around Jon.

”We are practically reaching the point of frenzy, such is our curiosity,” the bauble went on. “Why, do you suppose, Jon,” she purred his name as if it were a rich, dark velvet she was very fond of. Dany found her eyes narrowing. “—the horses of this particular farm are the finest in all of the Crownlands? What do you do to them?” she asked, smiling prettily and leaning much closer to him than Dany believed necessary.

_What in the Seven Hells was she going on about? There was nothing special about their horses._ Save Horse. He was indeed fine. She always made sure Jon paid him careful attention.

“I just feed them, my Lady,” Jon said, finally raising his eyes up to the woman.

Dany’s insides clenched painfully.

Ellaria’s smile grew ever more cunning. “Well then, the mystery is solved. We can all rest easy now. Clearly, the magic is in Jon’s feeding. Show me how you do it, would you, Jon?”

“Feed the horses for you, my Lady?” he stuttered.

“Yes, please.”

“When?”

“Now will be soon enough,” she purred.

Jon swallowed before turning to Dany. She stood frozen as he stared, his expression turning tender as a new dawn. 

“As you wish,” he said, softly, slowly, and though he held out his arm for the lady, he never let his eyes stray from Dany's.

Now might be a good time to introduce this stable boy to you.

He had been living on their lands since he was a young boy of eight and his parents were lost to sickness, an unfortunate but quick lesson in the unfairness of life for the boy. Aerys had known Jon’s family and in a startling moment of kindness took the orphan under his care. He had been a small scrawny thing then, with a mop of hair as black as soot and big round eyes as grey as the sea before a storm and just as sad. But little Dany had not cared one whit what he looked like, only that he was there and she would finally have someone to play with. Her childhood had been dreadfully lonely til then. 

He was allowed to live in the main house at first, and the two of them became fast friends. For five years they were inseparable. Running across the fields and down to the beach to swim; racing their horses over the bright green hills, playing hide and seek from each other, or huddled hand in hand, smothering giggles as her parents searched and searched. Sharing secrets. Telling stories. The pair of them only smiled when they were together, so together they stayed. 

Until Jon had a growth spurt his thirteenth year (Dany’s twelfth) and Aerys put his foot down, his kindness turning to ash as quick as paper thrust into flames. Jon was not of their calibre, and he was getting too old to play with his daughter, it just wasn’t proper anymore. Rhaella did not go against her husband, and Dany was only a child whose wants mattered not. 

Jon was sent to live in the barn, to sleep and eat in the hay as if he were no better than an animal himself. He was to be taught by old Mister Hullen how to tend the horses, while Aerys filled his daughter’s head with petty lies about poor, penniless farm boys wanting to steal their money.

Dany and Jon both were very upset for a time, but eventually grew used to being apart. Jon was kept too busy with his work to steal any time away to sneak in and see her, and Rhaella (under Aerys’ orders) began schooling Dany in the ways of being a lady from sunup to sun down. All of which Dany loathed, but did anyway. As was her duty. 

Before long they were both nearly grown, him shy and stumbling, her sniffy and stoic. Their only time together was spent with Dany ordering him around.

“Boy, fetch my horse,” she would demand.

He would smile softly in response and nod, a black curl slipping down to hang over one stormy grey eye. “As you wish.”

“Boy, bring me some water.”

“As you wish.”

“Clean my saddle, boy.”

“As you wish.”

No matter her demand he always answered the same: sweetly and with the softest of small smiles. “As you wish.”

It drove her to absolute distraction, yet she found herself hunting for any little reason she could think of to go order him around at least three times a day. Yet, it wasn’t until _that_ day, that fateful day the Viper and his Lady came to visit and Jon spoke those words once more… 

And so came her first, shocking slap. 

_'_ As _you wish’_ wasn't the maddening, respectable response she’d believed, but so much more. All that time. All those countless times she'd ordered him about… all those soft smiles she'd received. What he'd really been saying was… ‘ _I love you.’_

He loved her. Jon loved her.

He had just looked her dead in the eye and told her, too. Plain as day. Right in front of that nasty Lady Ellaria. Easy as you please, just as he had everyday for the last five years. She just hadn’t been listening.

For his part, Jon had loved her for as long as he could remember. The change from seeing her as only a playmate to have fun with to adoring love had come to him as gently as a spring breeze. He had embraced the realization easily and chose to give her his heart with everything he was. There was no other option, in his mind. 

But the truth was so stunning to Dany it was as if a giant wave had risen out of nowhere and flung her against a hard, sandy beach. She came up scared and sputtering, standing in shock, teetering on shaky legs, her emotions running rampant as she watched the gaudy bauble smile at Jon—so beautiful, shirtless, and somehow still pale as marble in the blistering sun.

The vile woman linked her arm through his, then rubbed her other hand over his strong forearm, giggling at whatever he had just said to her.

Dany could hear nothing but the sound of her pounding heart.

Jon and the Lady turned and headed toward the stables, oblivious to Dany’s trembling distress.

_How dare that hussy touch him that way! Look at him that way!_

“I’ll help!” she yelled, running to catch up to them. She’d be damned if she was going to let that wonton molest that sweet boy.

The Viper perked up at her shout. “They’ll need my help too, I suppose,” he said, and hurriedly followed Dany to the barn.

“Strange things are happening,” Aerys said to his wife, and off they went, bringing up the rear of the horse-feeding trip, watching the Viper, who was watching their daughter, who was watching the Lady.

Who was watching Jon.

Dany was in a right fit the rest of the day. Completely out of sorts, her every nerve feeling as if it sat above a bucket of burning coals. It wasn't like her at all. She took everything in stride, calm and cool as the mill pond her mother always said. But the sun had fallen and she was _still_ out of sorts, as a matter of fact. She had only picked at her supper, barely listening to her parents ramble and rant about their high class visitors that day, excusing herself half way through. She simply couldn't sit and listen to another word about them. 

So, she took herself to her room and proceeded to pace across the worn floorboards hoping to straighten out her knotted nerves.

But all the pacing and hand wringing and muttering was getting her nowhere. If she wasn't careful she might very well turn into her father, mad as he was. She flung herself across her bed and squeezed her eyes shut.

And there was the Lady staring at Jon.

_Was_ that _what was wrong with her? How ridiculous!_ Daenerys Targaryen did not fret over boys, nor have silly romantic notions that could and _would_ be stomped out by mothers and fathers and the restrictive rules they followed to the letter.

With an irritated groan she got back up from the bed and stripped off her clothes. She washed a little, then threw on her nightgown before crawling between the sheets and snuggling in. A good night's sleep was all she needed. All would be right in the morning. She closed her eyes.

The Lady was still staring at Jon!

Dany threw back the sheets and hurried across her room to her basin. Scooping up two handfuls of water she splashed it on her face. She felt feverish, but not sick feverish. She had always been healthy as a horse.

_Ahhhh! Stupid, stupid horses!_

She dried herself off and went back to bed, closing her eyes tight.

The Lady would _not_ stop staring at Jon!

She drew herself up against her headboard, knees up, arms around them. She would figure this out if it took all night. 

The problem was, it made no sense. _Why?_ Why in the world would that woman be interested in a stable boy? She was married, rich, and popular. Had everything a woman of her station could want. Jon was just a farm boy. Did she mean to take him to tend her own horses? Dany couldn't have said why, but something told her that wasn't it at all. No, it was something else.

There was simply no other way of deciphering the looks the Lady had given him. She was _interested_. Very interested. Dany squeezed her eyes tighter shut and raked through her memories of the high class harlot. Her smile, her eyes, her movements. Clearly, there was something about Jon that had her fawning and slinking about like a cat in heat. But what?

He was just Jon. Just a boy.

Yes, he had eyes like the sea before a storm, but who cared about eyes, really? Everyone had eyes. His hair was as black as a raven’s wing, if you liked that sort of thing. But it was too curly by far. Such a mess about his face, always getting in his eyes. He was broad enough in the shoulders, but not all that much broader than the Viper, afterall. And certainly he was muscular, but anybody would be muscular when they slaved about all day. And his skin was pale and perfect, which she supposed was a feat since he spent most days in the sun. Although his stomach was flat and rippled with muscles, that was just because he was young. Only the old ones had bellies that bulged. His face was pleasant enough, she supposed; eyes not set too far apart, nose straight, lips nice... if rather on the plump side.

She sat up straighter and leaned forward, chin in hand. Maybe it was his teeth? Jon did have good teeth. White and perfectly straight, particularly set behind those plump lips of his. Good teeth were such a rarity. Could it have been anything else? Dany thought hard.

When Jon escorted her to the village, the girls there followed them around like a gaggle of geese, giggling and gaping, even when she left him outside the shops. She'd watched them through the windows more than a few times. But they were just silly girls with silly notions, they would follow anything. And Jon ignored them, anyway. Probably because if he’d ever opened his mouth, his secret would've been found out; he was just good teeth. He was, after all, not very bright.

How strange for a woman as beautiful and slender and willowy—a creature, as perfectly packaged, as supremely dressed, as the Lady Ellaria should be hung up on teeth that way.

It was ridiculous even. They were _teeth_ for heaven’s sake! People did not look at other people the way the Lady looked at Jon because of their teeth.

Another realization came to Dany, then. Her second stinging slap... and it was most unpleasant.

Jon had not looked at the Lady the way he did because of her teeth, either.

Dany had seen it herself. They were all in the barn and he was feeding the horses and his muscles were rippling the way they always did under his pale, sweat sheened skin and he had smiled, plump lips curved up to show his pretty teeth, grey eyes sparkling as he gazed deep into the Lady’s eyes.

She jumped out of bed and began to pace her room again. The buckets of burning coals had dumped themselves into her stomach and she felt like a fire breathing dragon ready to turn a certain someone to ashes.

_How could he?_ It was one thing if he looked at her, but he wasn’t just looking at her, he was _looking_ at her!

“She’s ancient,” Dany scoffed, her face in a scorching sneer.

The Lady would never see thirty again and that was a fact. And her dress looked beyond ridiculous on her as she preened about in the dirty barn. Stupid, gaudy, gastly-looking frock that it was.

Dany fell back onto her bed with a furious groan and clutched her pillow across her breasts. That dress had been ridiculous before it ever got to the barn. The Lady appeared as rotten as an old apple the minute she left the carriage, with her too-wide painted mouth and her little, beady black eyes and her olive skin and… and… and… 

Flailing and fuming, Dany thrashed and tossed and paced, only to flail and fume some more. 

There had been three great cases of jealousy since Alicent Hightower was first afflicted with it—when she couldn’t stand the fact that Rhaenyra Targaryen had risen to the position of First Lady over her. Dany’s particular case rated a close fourth on the all-time list. 

It was a very long and very green night.

She was outside the barn before dawn. She could not bring herself to wait a moment more. Jon needed to know her heart just as she did. It may have taken hours of torment to untie all the tangled knots, but she now knew to her very bones why she'd been so distraught from the happenings the day before. 

The third slap had made sure of it. 

She loved him. 

She loved Jon just as he loved her. How she had been so blind to her own heart for so long she had yet to sort through. She would at some point, but it had to wait. Jon needed to know. She could not leave him to suffer another night as she'd just had. 

It nearly broke her to think of all the time he had spent loving her from afar. How his heart must've ached! Her poor, sweet, patient boy. She was about to end their suffering, though, and it would be nothing more than a faded memory soon.

Inside the barn, she could hear him already awake. Shuffling around, murmuring softly to the horses. She smiled, already able to see him in her mind, soft and sweet and serious. With a deep breath and a heart full of hope, she knocked. He appeared and stood in the doorway. Behind him she could see a tiny candle on top of a block of wood, an open book in the hay pile. He waited, looking at her with a black eyebrow arched high over one stormy grey eye.

She looked away and back at him. Then she looked away again.

She'd never had any trouble looking on him before, but now… He was just too beautiful.

He made her brain turn to mush. Her heart race quick as a rabbit behind her ribs. Her stomach dance a jig.

But he would think her crazy if she didn't speak soon.

“I love you,” she blurted out, and the floodgates of her heart simply burst open and out her mouth. “I know this must come as something of a surprise, since I all but forgot about you, scorned you, taunted you, and ordered you about, but I have loved you for several hours now, and every second I love you more. I thought an hour ago that I loved you more than any woman has ever loved a man, but a half hour after that I knew what I felt before was nothing compared to what I felt then. But ten minutes after that, I understood that my previous love was a puddle compared to the high seas before a storm. Your eyes are like that, did you know? Well, they are. How many minutes ago was I? _Twenty_? Had I brought my feelings up to then? It doesn’t matter.”

She still could not look at him though she could feel his gaze. The sun was rising behind her now; the heat on her back warming her. It gave her the courage to go on. 

“I love you so much more now than when you opened the door, there cannot be comparison. There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. My mind begs you to ask it something so it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for the rest of your days? I will. Do you want me to crawl? I’ll crawl. I will be quiet for you, or sing for you, or if you are hungry, I’ll bring you food, or if you’re thirsty I’ll make you wine. Anything there is that I can do for you, I will do it. If there is something I cannot do, I will learn to do it. I know I cannot compete with the Lady Ellaria in skills or wisdom or appeal, and I saw the way she looked at you. And I saw the way you looked at her. But remember, please, she's old and married, while I'm young and for me there is only you. Dearest Jon— I’ve never called you that before, have I? Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon. Darling, adored Jon. Sweet, perfect Jon, whisper that I have a chance to win your love.”

And with that, she dared the bravest thing she’d ever done: she looked right into his stormy grey eyes. 

He closed the door in her face without a word.

_Without a word._

Dany ran. She whirled around and ran away. Her heart in a thousand, cutting pieces. The tears came hard and bitter. She could not see a thing and she stumbled, slamming into a tree trunk. She fell, rose, and ran on, her shoulder throbbing from where the tree trunk hit her. The pain was strong, but not enough to ease her shattered heart. She ran back to her room, back to her pillow.

And safe behind the locked door, she drenched the world with tears.

Not even one word. He hadn’t had the decency for that. “Sorry,” he could have said. Would it have killed him to say “sorry”? “Too late,” he could have said. Why couldn’t he at least have said something? Anything?

Dany thought very hard about that for a moment and suddenly she had the answer: he didn’t talk because the minute he opened his mouth, that was it. Sure he was handsome, but dumb? The minute he had exercised his tongue, it would have all been over.

“Duhhhhhhh.”

That’s what he would have said. That was the kind of thing Jon came out with when he was feeling really sharp. “Duhhhhhhh, thanks, Dany.”

She dried her tears and began to smile. She took a deep breath and heaved a sigh. It was just a silly notion. Girls got these quick little passions and with a blink they were gone. You forgave faults, found perfection, fell madly in love, then the next day the sun came up and it was all gone. 

It was just a silly fling.

She stood, made her bed, changed her clothes, combed her hair, smiled, and burst into tears again. Because, really, there was a limit to just how much you could lie to yourself.

Jon wasn’t stupid.

Oh, she could pretend he was. She could laugh about his difficulties with geography. She could chide herself for her silly infatuation with a dullard. The truth was simply this: he had a head on his shoulders. With a brain inside every bit as good as his perfect teeth. There was a reason he hadn’t spoken and it had nothing to do with his brain not working. He hadn’t spoken because, really, there was nothing for him to say. He didn’t love her back and that was that.

She was the stupid one thinking his ‘as you wish’ was the same as ‘I love you’.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid girl!_

The tears that kept Dany company the remainder of the day were not at all like those that had blinded her into the tree trunk.

Those were noisy and hot, these were silent and steady and all they did was remind her that she wasn’t good enough. She was seventeen, and every man she’d ever known had crumbled at her feet and it meant nothing. The one time it mattered, the one man she wished to fall... wouldn’t. Had found her lacking for a reason he was too bothered to say. 

The fourth slap came, and with it she well and truly realized that life wasn’t fair.

For two days she stayed inside, feigning a headache. She didn't even leave her room, let alone the house. Horse must’ve thought her dead, for she never went a day without a ride, but she hadn't gathered the pieces of her heart up well enough yet. Seeing the stable boy would've caused them all to slip through her fingers again. Caused them to shatter further and only give her more pieces to pick up. She may have been a coward, but she just couldn't do it. Not yet, perhaps soon. Perhaps one day she could look upon him again and not feel the crumbled ruin that was her heart.

Nighttime had fallen once more when she heard a tap at her window. She wiped her eyes. Another tap, this time louder.

“Who is it?” she huffed, but that was all for show. Her heart was in her throat, tattered and trembling. She desperately wanted whoever it was to be him. Who else could it be? Her parents had long since told her goodnight.

The name she most wanted to hear was uttered quietly through the glass and wood.

“Jon,” she whispered loudly, scurrying across the bed and then to the window, flinging it open, a thousand fireflies dancing in her belly.

There he was, standing on her balcony, raven and beautiful in the moonlight.

Rather unfortunately, her nerves took over. “I’m so glad you snuck up here. I’ve been feeling horrible about the trick I pulled on you the other morning. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. I only meant to have a little fun. It was cruel of me, really. But you knew the whole time I’m sure. Just like when we were little, right? Teasing and picking on each other.”

”I’ve come to say goodbye.”

Her heart stuttered at his softly uttered words. “You mean goodnight. That’s so sweet of you after what I did. I hope you sleep—”

“I’m leaving, Dany,” he said. There was no teasing in his dark silvery eyes, no smirk tugging at his full lips. He looked as sad as he had the day she met him, a soul left all alone in the world. And now he meant to do the same to her.

She shook her head, denial rising up. “Leaving? Why in the world would you do that?” she whispered, the floor pitching beneath her, or was that her head spinning? She brought her hand up to stop it just as a horrid thought hit her. “Because of me?” she gasped, choking back a cry.

”Yes.”

“Because I told you I love you?”

“Yes,” he answered again, only that time with a smile she recognized. The one he had always given only to her.

_How dare he mock her now!_

Anger washed over her, taking the place of her fear. “Fine then. You’ve made your choice. I hope she makes you happy. But do not come crawling to me when she trades you in for a new stable boy, because I won’t take you back.”

Jon scowled at her in confusion. Dany, with her broken heart, only saw defiance.

She wrapped herself tightly in her robe and turned back into her room. He followed, though she did not look his way, only continued to berate him. “Just because you’re beautiful and perfect doesn’t mean someone new won’t catch her eye. She’ll toss you aside like yesterday’s pig slop. You’re crazy if you think she won’t. She’ll remember you’re just a poor penniless stable boy soon enough.”

He stepped in front of her, the furrow between his lovely eyes deep, his full mouth drawn into a pitiful pout. “I’m going across the Narrow Sea, Dany. To make something of myself. There’s boundless opportunities there. I work harder than anyone in the Crownlands. I’m strong. I’ve taught myself how to go without sleep. I only need a few hours a night now. I’ll work two jobs and save everything except what little bit I need for food.” His pretty face softened with the sweetest of smiles. “I’ll buy a farm and build a house with a bed big enough for two inside of it,” he told her, happy and hopeful.

Dany laughed darkly, rolling her eyes at his nonsense. “You think she’s going to leave behind her fancy house and her fancy clothes and her rich husband to live on a poor man’s farm in Essos? You’re as stupid as I thought you were.”

Jon’s jaw clenched, his stormy eyes flashing as he shoved his hands into his shiny midnight curls. “Would you _pleeeeaaase_ stop talking about that dreadful woman. If only because you love me and don’t want me to be driven mad!”

Her heart stalled. Simply stopped.

“What?” she whispered, quite unable to manage more.

Jon sighed loudly as he stepped forward and took her into his arms, confusing her completely. He hadn’t touched her since they were children. “I know me shutting the door in your face probably didn't sit well with you.”

She wanted to yank herself out of his arms at the stinging memory still harsh and bright as glinting daggers within her heart and mind, but the touch of his hands against her… the warmth of them soaking through her thin robe and gown… the scent of him, the sweetness of his gaze… 

Dany stayed right where she was and hissed at him instead. “Why did you do that? After all I said, how could you be so cruel? Not one word, Jon. You couldn't find it within you to give me at least one word?”

The tears were threatening, hot behind her eyes, burning her nose. But she would not let them fall.

Jon brought her closer still, pressed her against his chest. He was still wearing her smile. “I know you can figure this out. Think.”

She didn't have to think, she'd already done days worth of thinking, turning over every moment they'd ever spent together and all those they'd spent apart in her head. She knew, she just hadn't been able to bring herself to go to him yet, to tell him she understood it all. 

“You were angry. Hurt it had taken me so long, that I had been too blind to see it.”

“Too deaf to hear it you mean.” His head dropped to rest against hers and he sighed. “All the times I told you. You never heard, wouldn’t listen to me.” He said it so sadly Dany's heart broke all over again and there was nothing to stop the tears then. “I’ve been saying it for so long, you just wouldn’t listen. Every time you said ‘Boy, do this’ you thought I was answering ‘As you wish’ but that’s only because you were hearing wrong.”

“I know, I know.” She reached up and cupped his beloved face in her hands. “You were saying, I love you. And I’m so sorry I didn't hear it, but I hear you now, and I promise you this: I will never love anyone else. Only you. Until I die,” she swore. “ _If_ you really love me?” 

His beautiful eyes rolled so far back in his head she worried they’d be stuck and she’d never get to see them again. He tutted. He just couldn’t believe her sometimes. 

“Do I love you? Bloody hells, Dany. How can you ask me that?” he groaned. 

“Well I—”

“Why do you think I stayed all these years, working in that godsawful barn?” he went on, brooding fiercely. “I could’ve left, but I stayed for you. Borrowed every book from your father’s library to teach myself all I could. Worked hard to make my body strong because I thought you might be pleased by it. Prayed everyday you might glance in my direction. There’s not been a moment in years when the sight of you didn't send my heart careening against my ribs. Even when we were children. Not a night when your beautiful face didn’t accompany me to sleep, stay with me in dreams. Not a morning that you weren’t my first thought. Is any of this getting through to you, or do you want me to go on for a while?” he asked, his frown having become a smirk.

“Never stop,” she said, nearly breathless.

“There has not been—”

She pushed at him then, sneering playfully. “If you’re teasing me, Jon, I’m going to kill you.”

He looked aghast. “How can you even dream I might be teasing?”

Dany stepped back, crossing her arms and tilting her head. “Well, you haven’t actually said the words, now have you?”

His eyes rolled again, hands thrown into the air. “I love you. Want it louder? I love you!” he shouted, quietly. “Spell it out, should I? I ell-oh-vee-ee why-oh-you. Want it backward? You love I.”

Dany fell into his chest with a giggle. “Stop, silly, you are teasing me now.”

His arms came back around her. “Aye, a little. Perhaps I should've done a lot more of it.”

She looked up into his sweet face, hating to know she'd hurt him for so long. Wishing she could turn back time. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Already done,” he whispered.

“I love you.”

He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead. “As I do you,” he whispered. “I’ll send for you soon. Believe me.”

All the joy that had gathered in her heart vanished. “Must you leave?” she gasped, hands clutched in his shirt. “I’ve only just realized how very much I love you. We’ve only had a moment. I want a lifetime,” she whispered, not caring how distraught she sounded. 

He looked as if she'd stuck him. “I do too, gods do I. But that's why I must. I’m already late. I hate it, but I have to go. Essos is a long way and the ship sails soon. I can't miss it,” he said, pulling her tighter into his arms.

“Take me with you,” she begged him.

He reached up with his right hand and cupped her face, wiped at her tears with a tender thumb. Dany was finding it very hard to breathe, all of her ached in the worst and best of ways.

“A ship on the sea is no place for a lady. I’ll come back, I swear it,” he vowed. “You’ll wait for me?”

“Of course, my love. Forever if I must,” she promised.

“Goodbye,” he whispered.

She made a little nod, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth, cheeks wet. She couldn’t say the words. She knew they would pierce her heart if she did.

He took a step back. She watched him, wanting him in her sight as long as possible. He turned and the words ripped out of her, “Without one kiss?”

They fell into each other’s arms.

There have been five great kisses since the first men came to Westeros. And the precise rating of kisses is a terribly difficult thing, often leading to great controversy, because although everyone agrees with the formula of affection times purity times intensity times duration, no one has ever been completely satisfied with how much weight each element should receive. But on any system, there are five that everyone agrees deserve full marks.

This one left them all behind.

And gave them both the strength they needed to part. Dany stood on her balcony watching her love walk away from her in the moonlight until she could no longer see him. Falling asleep that night was nearly impossible with her emotions soaring to teetering heights when she thought of Jon telling her he loved her, only to plummet to the pits of all seven hells as she thought of how long she would be without him. She finally succumbed to sleep, tears dampening her cheeks, a soft smile on her face.

The next morning Dany woke feeling fine and then the night came rushing back to her. Jon loved her and she loved him. She couldn’t be happier. But Jon was gone and there was no way to know when he would be back.

Despair overtook her and she wallowed in it like a pig in mud. Her Jon was gone! How would she ever survive? Life was so unfair! So horribly, horribly unfair.

She was learning, but, unfortunately life wasn’t quite done teaching her. But we’ll get to that later.

Dany sobbed for a good ten minutes before a tragic thought hit her. What if while she was laying there crying herself into a sloppy mess, Jon found another? A beautiful girl who didn’t cry herself into an ugly old hag. Or worse yet, what if Jon came back and saw her haggard, weeping self and said, “Dany dear, I’m going back without you, the moping has destroyed your eyes, the self-pity has taken your skin and dulled your silver hair; you’re a sloppy-looking creature, I’m marrying an Dothraki girl who lives in a tent nearby and is always in the peak of condition.”

Dany jumped up and ran to her mirror searching her reflection for flaws. She was an utter mess. “Oh, Jon! I will never disappoint you again!” she swore to him and herself too.

She ran to her parents, who were fussing as usual at the breakfast table. “I need help,” she rushed out. “What must I do to make myself more presentable?”

Rhaella stared at her daughter in shock. She could hardly believe it— was her daughter finally ready to truly be the lady she had always begged her to be?

Her father never bothered looking up from his morning paper. “Washing the stink of horse and sweat from yourself would be a good place to start.”

Her mother woke from her stupefaction. “Your hair!” she shouted with excitement, jumping up from her chair, her dishes clattering from the upset.

“Maybe scrub off the caked on mud from behind your ears and between your toes.”

Another of her father’s tips.

“Your nails!” her mother shouted again. “A lady must have clean nails.”

“Don’t forget her knees and elbows, they’re rough as corn cobs.”

“Alright! That’s quite enough,” Dany said, exasperated. “Good grief, who knew it was such work to be well kept?”

Rhaella didn’t bother answering her daughter, instead she rushed her to the washroom and proceeded to scrub every grimy inch of her until her skin had a bright pink glow and her hair was shining like silver in the sun.

Every morning after, Dany bathed herself until she sparkled. While her long hair dried she would trim her nails, or rub the sweet smelling creams her mother gave her into her skin. No more rough as a cob elbows and knees for her. Then she would spend an hour brushing her hair to a shimmering silver. One thousand strokes. It took that many when you had long, thick hair as she did. It made her arms tired, but that was a small price to pay when she thought of how Jon’s face would look when he saw it the first time. He had never seen her clean before, he would be so surprised he would probably weep with happiness.

Her mother already was. Quite often actually.

Dany had risen in the standings for most beautiful woman considerably. From twentieth to fifteenth with just a single bath! Just amazing, it was. Never in the history of women had one excelled so quickly. 

Her momentum did not stop there, though. A long letter arrived from Jon just a couple of weeks later: he had made it to Pentos. Dany vaulted to eighth place just by reading his sweet words. It was her love for him that was the cause of her beauty those days. She loved him more with each one that passed, and she simply glowed with it. The folks in the village were awestruck. People couldn’t believe she was even the same girl. Most stopped and stared in wonder, others had to speak to her just so they could say they had.

They knew exactly what her secret was after they did, too.

Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon, Jon. He was all Dany could speak of. She made many late for their suppers, she could speak so much on the subject of her sweet Jon. Wonderful, brilliant, gentle, hard working, loving, incredibly perfect Jon. Loving him not only made her more beautiful, it made her much more agreeable and dear, too. She was actually nice to be around now that she was so happy and didn’t smell of sweaty horse. So people found joy in listening to her go on and on. She loved him so completely, after all.

But, as you’ve been told, life is not fair. It can be exceedingly cruel in fact.

He had written to her just before he sailed from Pentos. _The Queen’s Pride_ was his ship, and he loved her. (That was the way his sentences always went: It’s raining today, and I love you. My seasickness is better, and I love you. Say hello to Horse, and I love you. Like that.) Then there were no letters, but that was natural; he was at sea. Then, she heard. She came home from a ride and her parents were still as stone.

“Off the coast of Braavos,” her father whispered.

Her mother whimpered. “Without warning. At night.”

“What?”

“Pirates,” said her father.

Dany thought she’d better sit down, the room was spinning, and it had gone deathly quiet.

“He’s been taken prisoner then?” she managed.

Her mother gave a soft, “no.”

“It was Roberts,” her father said. “The Dread Pirate Roberts.”

“Oh,” Dany said, “the one who never leaves survivors.”

“Yes,” her father said.

The ticking of the clock, the pounding of her heart.

“Was he stabbed? Did he drown? Did they cut his throat, asleep?” she asked in quick succession. “Did they wake him, do you suppose? Perhaps they whipped him dead…” She stood up then. “I’m getting silly, forgive me.” She shook her head. “As if the way they got him matters. Excuse me, please.”

With that, she hurried to her room. She stayed there for days, weeks even. At first her parents tried to lure her out, but she would not have it. They took to leaving food outside her room. She took bits and shreds, enough to stay alive. There was never any noise inside, no wailing, no bitter sounds. And when she at last came out, her eyes were dry. Her parents silently stared up from their breakfast at her. They both started to rise but she put a hand out and stopped them.

“I can care for myself, please,” she said and she set about getting some food.

They watched her closely. In point of fact, she had never looked as well. She had entered her room as just an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, and an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain, and beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering. She was eighteen. She was the most beautiful woman in a hundred years. And she didn't care at all.

“You’re all right?” her mother asked.

Dany sipped her cocoa. “Fine,” she said.

“You’re sure?” her father wondered.

“Yes,” she replied. There was a very long pause. “But I must never love again.”

She never did.

  
  



	2. The Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet the Prince and his supplicants. They are not nice people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder how awful it would've been to suffer Joffrey and Ramsay at once? You're about to find out.

Prince Joffrey was shaped like a twig. A spindly little twig that had been wrung from a sapling. Arms, legs, neck and all. He was not tall either. Not short per say, but certainly not tall.

He walked like a peacock though, strutting about as if he were the most beautiful creature ever made. His skinniness and lack of height not affecting his hubris at all. While he certainly enjoyed being the prince, he wasn’t in that much of a hurry to be king. Even hunting, which he excelled at, took second place in his affections. Everything took second place in his affections. Killing was his love. He made it a practice never to let a day go by without killing something. It didn’t much matter what. 

His father, King Robert, encouraged him to hunt from a very young age. Taking him on one hunt or another as soon as he could sit a horse. At first he killed because he was told that’s what men did to beasts, killed them for food or sport. But as he grew and began to have a mind of his own, he began to enjoy it. 

The chase, the wide panicked eyes, the solid thunk of his arrow sinking into flesh, the blood and lifelessness that followed. 

He liked it very much indeed.

His skills quickly increased, and his delectation for the beasts’ suffering did too. He could happily spend an afternoon tracking any manner of them across forest and field knowing there would be blood in the end. Once he was determined, once he had focused on his prey, he was relentless. He never tired, never wavered, neither ate, nor slept until it was dead. 

While his father had many other duties to attend to, his grandfather, Tywin Lannister made sure Joffrey never had to hunt alone. A fellow friend and lord, Roose Bolton had a son not too many more years older than Joffrey by the name of Ramsay, and the two young lads became quick comrades after finding they had much the same tastes when it came to _hunting._

In his early days Joffrey wanted to hunt the entire Seven Kingdoms, and Essos to boot. But travel consumed time, ships and horses being slow as they were, and the time away from King's Landing was worrying. Mostly for his mother, the Queen Cersei. She believed her son the most precious perfect prince to ever be and spent much of her time fretting and fluttering about him telling him and anyone who would listen it was so. She liked him kept close as well, so she could look upon him anytime she liked as if he were some prized trinket or urn.

Beyond her, was the irritating rule he was reminded of more often than necessary. There must always be a male heir to the throne. As long as his father was alive, there wasn’t much to worry about. But, as his mother and grandfather were always quick to caution; someday his father would die and then _he_ would be the king and would need to select a queen so he too would have an heir of his own. 

He was not looking forward to either of those things. 

Women, while nice to look at, at least some of them, were mostly boring and quite annoying with their constant primping and tittering. 

But such was the life of a prince.

He made do. With Ramsay’s help. 

To avoid the problem of his mother’s fretting, and fierce insistence he not traipse all over the country, Prince Joffrey and Ramsay built a special place just for their unique amusements.

The Zoo of Death. 

It was well hidden in the keep’s extensive dungeons. The bloodthirsty pair designed it themselves, and Joffrey sent his hirelings across Planetos to stock it for him. It was kept brimming with things they could hunt down and kill, after throwing in some torment and torture first, of course. It really wasn’t like any other animal sanctuary anywhere. In the first place, there were never any visitors. Only the eunuch keeper, Varys, to make sure the beasts were properly fed, and to ensure there was never any sickness nor weakness within the beasts. They needed to be in tip top shape at all times. 

There were five different levels, all with the proper needs for their individual prey. On the first, were animals of speed: wild dogs, cheetahs, deer of all sorts. The second belonged to those with great strength: enormous squeezing snakes, an elephant or two, and crocodiles of over twenty feet. The third was for those who could poison: spitting cobras, jumping spiders, deadly frogs galore. The fourth was the kingdom of the most dangerous, the enemies humans feared most: lions and tigers, shrieking eels slithering about in their own pool, a blood eagle, wings six foot across(they thrived on human flesh), and of course no zoo would be complete without a direwolf. Joffrey’s hunters had only found one, a big beautiful beast, white as snow with glowing ruby red eyes who never made a sound. Even the Eunuch shivered during feeding time on the fourth level. 

The fifth level though, was empty, of prey anyway. 

They called it the Pit of Despair and it held some very special things. 

In one corner was a chest, and within it lay three pristine dragon eggs. One black, one green, and one gold. They were believed to be petrified, but Joffrey was certain they could be hatched, it was only a matter of how. He had his very best minds searching far and wide for the answers. One day they would find the key and then he would have three dragons. The ultimate prize for any hunter.

And then there was The Machine. 

It was a contraption of Ramsay’s brilliance. They were saving it in the hopes of someday finding something worthy, something as dangerous and fierce and powerful as they believed themselves to be. Unlikely, they knew. But still, they were eternal optimists. Everything was always in readiness just in case they were to stumble upon their prize. And in the meantime there was really more than enough on the other four levels to keep any man of such tastes happy. 

Joffrey was down on level four tormenting a tiger when the business of the King’s health made its ultimate intrusion. 

Ramsay’s voice interrupted his play at mid-afternoon. “There’s news,” he said. 

“Can it not wait?” he yelled back.

“For how long?”

His patience gone, Joffrey loosed a final bolt into the tigers head. “ _What_ is so important that you had to interrupt me? You know I’ve been looking forward to this for days,” he snarled, stepping past the dead beast and mounting the ladder out of the pit. 

“Your father is ill,” his fiendish friend said. “I have a report.” 

He’d made it to the top of the ladder and dusted off his hands. “Ill how? Did he finally catch something between a whore’s legs?” he joked and laughed long at his cleverness.

Ramsay smiled, because well, he had to. Friend or not, Joffrey was the Prince. And it wasn't all that horrible of a joke considering. “I’m afraid it’s much more serious than that. It’s believed he’s been poisoned. They say he’s dying.“

“Godsdamnit!” the Prince hissed. “That means I have to find a bloody bride.”

  
  


—

  
  


They met in his father’s bedroom. Prince Joffrey, his grandfather, his father—laid in bed and blathering—and his mother, Queen Cersei. His evil mother. Save for all her fretting and fluttering, he loved her dearly, simply because she was so evil.

Queen Cersei was beautiful even at her late age of thirty and eight. Golden from head to toe, slender yet shapely, eyes as green as spring grass. Joffrey got his looks from her. He favored his uncle Jaime as well. Twins they were, both beloved by the kingdoms.

“Well,” he sniffed once they were all sat down, “who do I marry? Let’s pick one and be done with it. I have better things to do.”

King Robert gurgled and gagged and gasped from the bed, but eventually found his voice. “My son needs a bride! A proper one that’ll give him sons!”

Queen Cersei was the only one who bothered answering him. “You couldn’t be more right, dear,” she said as she made a show of patting his clammy hand.

Robert garbled out something else, quite unintelligible. 

“What did he say?” Joffrey asked with a sneer.

His mother smiled at him. “He said whoever we decided on would be getting the most handsome prince there ever was.” 

Of course Joffrey preened at that, brushing at his doublet, smoothing down his hair. “Tell him he’s looking quite well himself,” he returned, though in truth he looked quite gastly. But that wasn’t really something you told a dying man.

His mother continued to smile between husband and son. “We’ve only just changed miracle workers,” she said. 

“You fired Miracle Mel?” Joffrey asked, flabbergasted. “I thought she was the only one left.” 

“We did. I couldn’t tolerate her any longer, she couldn’t be trusted. We found another one up in the mountains and he’s quite adept. Pycell. Old, of course, but then, who wants a young miracle worker?” 

“Tell him I’ve changed miracle men,” Robert mumbled, “No need to rush this bride business, I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, dear,” Cersei cooed and patted his hand again before turning to her beautiful son. “A man of your importance cannot marry just any woman.” 

“Of course not,” Prince Joffrey said. He sighed. Deeply. “I suppose that means one of Frey’s daughters.” 

“That would certainly be a favorable match politically,” Tywin allowed from where he stood looking out the windows. “Keep them in line if they should think to rebel. There’s so damn many of them.”

“That could be said of any of the kingdoms. Should I marry a daughter from each?” Joffrey asked flippantly. “I’d probably never be bored.”

His grandfather was not impressed with his joke, his hard eyes boring into him, always judging. Sometimes Joffrey wondered if he wouldn’t be the perfect prey for Ramsay’s machine. 

“We could invite each of the major houses down, have a tourney or something, let you get a look at them all,” his mother cut in.

“I suppose that will do.” He sniffed and gave a sigh as he stood, brushing the wrinkles from his doublet. “You know where to find me when you’ve got it all set up.”

  
  


—

  
  


Prince Joffrey stormed his way to the balcony above the Great Hall and stared down at the chaos below. The fires were still in places flaming red, guests were pouring out through the doors and Lady Sansa of House Tully was once again hatted, though faint, as she was being carried by her servants far from view. 

Queen Cersei finally caught up with her son, who stalked along the balcony clearly not yet in control. “I do wish you hadn’t been quite so blunt,” she said. 

The Prince whirled on her. “I’m not marrying any bald woman! The disrespect they showed me by just bringing her here! I should have them all beheaded!”

“No one would know,” his mother scoffed. “She has hats for everything, even for sleeping. And a dozen red wigs.” 

“I would know,” cried the Prince. “Did you see the candlelight reflecting off her skull?” 

“But things would have been so good with the Riverlands,” the Queen said, addressing herself half to the Prince, and half to Ramsay, who now joined them. 

“Forget about them, and the North and the Reach and anywhere else!” Joffrey sneered. “I’ll rule all of them in time, I practically do already with father being such a slobbering drunk.” He approached the Queen and stuck a twiggy finger in her face, very near her nose. “I’ll not have people laugh behind my back like they do him. Everyone of those _ladies_ was unacceptable. A bald wife, an ugly queen, a trollop that throws herself at every cock. I’ll not have any of them!” he screeched. “Find me someone else!” 

“Joffrey dear, calm yourself. You don't want to wrinkle too soon.”

“For godssake Mother, shut up!” 

Ramsay stepped forward then. “You obviously want someone who looks nice, but what if she’s not from a favorable family?” 

“What do you mean?” Joffrey asked, pacing again. 

The Red Viper of Drone and his Lady had been guests at that evening's festivities. He and Ramsay had quite the talk about a certain girl who had so much potential. 

“There’s just not many highborn ladies left and—”

“I don't care what family she's from,” Joffrey seethed.

“What if she can’t hunt?” Ramsay went on. 

“I don’t care if she can’t spell,” the Prince snapped. Suddenly he stopped and faced them. “I’ll tell you what I want,” he began. “I want someone who is so beautiful that when you see her you say, ‘Joffrey must be the kingliest of men to have a wife like that.’ Search the country, search the world, just find her!” 

Ramsay could only smile. “I believe I already have.”

  
  


—

  
  


It was dawn when they reined in at the hilltop. Ramsay rode a splendid black horse, large, perfect, powerful. Prince Joffrey rode one of his whites. It made Ramsay’s mount seem no better than a plow puller. 

“She rides in the mornings,” Ramsay said. 

“And she is truly without-question-no-possibility-of-error beautiful?” 

“She was something of a mess when the Viper saw her,” his friend admitted. “But he assured me the potential was overwhelming.” 

“A simple maid.” Joffrey ran the words across his tongue. “I don’t know that I could wed one of them even under the best of conditions. People might laugh that she was the best I could do.” 

“True,” Ramsay admitted. “but she's not so simple. The Targaryens once ruled all of Westeros.”

Joffrey threw him a cutting glance. “My father put an end to that.”

“Indeed. If you prefer, your Highness, we can ride back to King’s Landing without waiting.” 

“We’ve come this far,” the Prince said. “We might as well wai—” His voice quite simply died. “I’ll take her,” he managed, finally, as Daenerys rode slowly by below them. 

“No one will laugh, I think,” Ramsay said. 

“No indeed. She's perfect for what I have in mind.”

“Oh?”

“Just between you and me, my friend, I think I’ve decided something.”

“What's that?”

“I'm bored. Things are dreadfully dull these days. We need something to peak our interest more.”

Ramsay’s signature sinister grin appeared. “I'm listening.”

“I take this girl for a bride. Earn the kingdoms’ favor by being so just as to take an old enemy's daughter for a wife, and then…”

“And then?”

“We start a war.”

“Well, that certainly sounds fun.”

“Doesn’t it? I must go win her heart now,” Joffrey said with a snicker. “Leave us for a minute.” 

He rode the white expertly down the hill. Daenerys had never seen such a giant beast. Nor such a spindly rider. He looked like a child atop it. 

“I am your Prince and you _will_ marry me,” Joffrey demanded. 

In the days before her heart had known grief she would have laughed in his face. As it was, she never laughed, so she chose a different response. “I am your servant and I refuse,” she said softly.

Joffrey was not impressed, his thin mouth pinching tighter than it already was. “I am your _Prince_ , you cannot refuse.” 

Daenerys blinked slowly. “I am your loyal servant and I just did.” 

“Refusal means death.” 

“Kill me then,” she answered with a shrug.

This was not going the way Joffrey had imagined. He could feel his rage bubbling beneath the surface, but he managed to keep it controlled. She was the key to all his future fun. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m the Prince. The entire Seven Kingdoms are mine. I'm handsome, could provide you all the frippery and finery a lady could want, and all the riches. Could bring honor back to your family’s name. And you’d still rather be dead than married to me?” 

“Yes,” Daenerys said simply, “marriage involves love, which is not something I excel at. I tried once, and it went horribly wrong. I swore never to love again.” 

“Love?” Joffrey scoffed. “Who said anything about love? I certainly didn't. I’m heir to the throne. Once my father dies, there won’t be an heir, just a king. _Me_. Which means I have to marry and produce an heir. So you can either marry me and be the richest most powerful woman in the Seven Kingdoms and dote on the smallfolk and provide me a son, or you can die in terrible pain in the very near future. The choice is yours.” 

“You do not care I’m a Targaryen? Your family's sworn enemy.”

“Your beauty makes up for it.”

“I’ll never love you.” 

“And I’ll never love you.” 

“Then by all means let us marry.”

  
  



	3. The Kidnapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany's day goes awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where I struggled a bit with character choice. Several GoT characters could've easily fit the Sicilian, hopefully you'll feel I made the right choice. 
> 
> As for Inigo and Fezzik, the choice was crystal clear.

  
  


Three years passed. In those three years Daenerys prepared to be first a princess and then a queen. And now the time had come for her to be presented to the people. The great square of King’s Landing was filled as never before, the entire city awaiting the introduction of Prince Joffrey’s bride-to-be. At noontime, he appeared at the main balcony of the Red Keep and raised his arm. The crowd, which had reached a dangerous level, slowly quieted. There were stories that the King was dying, that he was already dead, that he had been dead long since, or that he was fine as frog’s hair. The crowds all hoped to know the truth soon.

“My people, today is a special day. As you must have heard, my honored father’s health is not what it once was. He is, of course, forty-seven, so who could ask more, but as you also know, House Baratheon needs a male heir.” 

The crowd began to stir. It was to be the lady they had heard so much about. Surely.

“In just over a month, my family will celebrate its fifteenth anniversary as rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. In way of celebration, I shall, on that sundown, take for my wife the Princess Daenerys.” He made a sweeping gesture and the doors swung open behind him and Daenerys stepped up and took her place beside him on the balcony. 

From below, came quite literally the lowest gasp ever heard. 

The twenty-one-year-old Princess far surpassed the eighteen-year-old mourner. All her potential had been reached, and what a triumph it was. Her hair shone like pure silver, spilling in full soft waves that reached her waist. Her skin was still as smooth and pale as wintery cream, but now, with two handmaidens assigned to each appendage and four for the rest of her, it actually, in certain lights, seemed to provide her with a gentle moon-like glow. Her cheeks were rosy, her figure firm, her spine straight. It was only in her eyes one could still see the girl with a broken heart. Though as beautiful and blue as spring skies, they held a sadness that could not be hidden. 

Prince Joffrey took her hand and held it high and the crowd cheered for close to a quarter of an hour. “That’s enough, mustn’t risk overexposure,” he said, and started back into the keep. 

“But they’ve waited for so long, some of them all day,” Dany countered. “I would like to walk among them.” 

Joffrey scoffed, looking at her as if she’d lost her wits. “We do not walk among the peasants unless it’s unavoidable. Are you mad?”

“I am not. And they are not peasants, they are people and I have known more than a few just like them in my time,” Dany told him. “They will not harm me if I give them no reason to.” 

With that she swept past him and left the balcony.

The Queen Mother joined her son as he looked on the crowds below, his nose sneered. “You best learn to control her, darling. You will not have a pleasant life if you don’t.”

Joffrey chuffed. “Don’t worry Mother, I have things quite in hand. Trust me.”

Beneath them Daenerys appeared on the great steps of the keep and, quite alone, walked open-armed down into the crowd. She had sworn she would never love again, sworn she would never love Joffrey, but as she walked through the people she made a decision. She would love them. Protect them, provide for them. Her heart would be for her people alone. They may not have chosen her, but she would serve them as if they had. 

As if her decision had somehow been felt by all, the people parted for her, silent and awed. She crossed and recrossed the Great Square and always, ahead of her, the people swept apart to let her pass. Dany continued, moving slowly and smiling sweetly, as if she had become their messiah. Most of the smallfolk would never forget that day. None of them, of course, had ever been so close to perfection, and the great majority adored her instantly. There were, to be sure, some who, while admitting she was pleasing enough, were withholding judgment as to her quality as a queen. And, of course, there were some more who were frankly jealous. But very few of them hated her. And only three of them were planning to murder her. 

Dany, naturally, knew none of this. She was feeling what she thought might very well be happiness for the first time in an age. Smiling a smile that for once wasn’t forced. She hadn't known it possible anymore, had almost forgotten what it felt like to simply smile, for her mouth to curve up in joy. She'd stopped smiling with her heart the day Jon had been torn from it. But there among the people, people like him she felt a warmth within her chest again, small and fragile, but there all the same. While she knew it would never be the fire she had felt for Jon, perhaps it would keep her heart alive and pumping for a few years more. Keep death far from her mind. She'd thought many times over in the last three years of joining him, of cutting her own life short as his had been. But that day, she wanted to live. 

So that death stalked her so closely would have only made her laugh. But, in the farthest corner of the Great Square, in the highest building in the land, deep in the deepest shadow—the man in black stood watching her. 

Black were his boots made of leather, faded and scuffed. Black were his pants as well, and his shirt. His mask was black too, blacker than a raven’s wings. But blackest of all were his eyes. Glinting with vengeance, deadly and cruel.

  
  


—

  
  


Dany was more than a little weary after her busy day. The bustling of her maids getting her ready, the tightness of her nerves as Joffrey introduced her, the crowds she walked through for hours… It had all been exhausting so she rested a bit, but not so long as to deviate from her usual schedule. Promptly at four o’clock she changed into her riding clothes.

Her love for riding had not wavered over the years, and every afternoon, weather permitting or not, she rode for several hours alone in the land beyond the city, deep into the King’s Wood on Horse.

He was the one connection she still allowed herself to Jon. The only other being alive that had felt his touch and known his love. Sometimes she almost found herself jealous of Horse for having Jon’s care and attention far more than she ever had. But that was no one’s fault but her own, so she could never bring herself to feel any anger toward her faithful steed for it.

Instead, as they cantered along, she would talk to him about her memories of Jon and imagine what Horse’s would be of him. Those were the only hours she felt any sort of peace, letting her mind wander through the past. 

But that day as they rode through woods and streams and heather, her mind was awash with new thoughts; those of her future. The walk through the smallfolk and their city had moved her, and in ways most strange. For even though she had done nothing for the last three years but train to be a princess and a queen, that day was the first day she’d actually understood it was all soon to be a reality. 

She was to be married to Joffrey within one short month. 

Everyone had told her, since she became a princess-in-training, that she was very likely the most beautiful woman in the world and was soon to be the richest and most powerful as well. 

But none of those things made her happy. If she could she would turn back time to that night in her bedroom, to those scant few moments she'd spent in Jon’s arms and she would've insisted on going with him. Even knowing the Dread Pirate Roberts would've found them and killed them both, she still would've gone. Lived and loved those few months on the high seas. They would have been worth death. She knew that now.

But she hadn't. And Jon was dead. She had a new life and she mustn't expect too much from it. Must learn to be satisfied with what she had. 

Seven kingdoms full of people, a crown… and Joffrey.

She’d given her word. It was too late to do a thing about it. While she’d sworn never to love him, and he seemed fine with that, she’d also come to the conclusion that she didn't like him at all. Looking back, she should've given it more thought when he asked. True, he’d told her quite honestly he would've had her killed, brutally in fact, all in order to keep respect for the Crown at its proper level if she'd scorned him; but still, she could have, had she so chosen, said “no.” 

She couldn’t truly say she hated him—she hadn't seen him enough to come to that severe of an opinion; he was always off someplace his mother insisted on or playing with Lord Bolton in that zoo of theirs. But he just wasn’t the likable sort. So much haughty hubris and snotty scorn. And at times there was something in his green eyes, a gleeful gleam that she suspected could very well be a streak of cruelty as wide and deep as the Trident. 

It was so different from anything she had ever seen in Jon’s eyes. They had always been kind, soft and sweet. The goodness within him ran so deep it could not be hidden. And while he had only filled her heart with warmth and love and joy, causing her in turn to offer the same to others, Joffrey filled her with something very close to dread. But she would not let him harden her towards their people. She would marry him as promised and be a shield that protected them from his wrath if it ever showed itself.

Dusk was closing in when she crested the familiar hill perhaps half an hour from the castle, her daily ride nearly three-quarters done. But standing in the dimness beyond, amongst the towering trees was the strangest trio she had ever seen. She reined in Horse, bringing him to a halt.

The man in front was no doubt the leader of the little group. His garb impeccable and richly made, and as he stepped forward she noted his smooth gait, almost snake like in its grace. Mustachioed, with wisps of grey at his temples and a face fairly gentle, he appeared not the least bit threatening at first glance. But something else lay in his eyes, beady and beguiling, that set her nerves alight with caution. The other two remained rooted behind him as he continued to slide his way toward her. 

One was a girl, though it looked as though she would rather be seen as a boy. But Daenerys remembered her younger days, there weren’t enough ratty clothes or dirt to hide a girl from the world. She stood as tall as her small stature allowed, hands clasped at her back, expression stoic and even a bit sullen. Strapped to her side was a blade of steel as slender and slight as she was. It almost looked like a comically large sewing needle.

The third could not be missed and sent a shiver down Dany’s spine. The brute of a man, clad in armor, was easily the biggest human being she had ever seen, and his greasy, straggly hair covered horrendous scars that spread over half his face. 

“A word?” the leader asked smooth and solicitously, raising his arms. His smile was more angelic than his face. 

In hindsight Dany would come to the conclusion she should've dug her heels into Horse and galloped away, but instead she remembered her pledge to keep her heart for her people and gave the man a nod. “How can I help you?”

“We are but poor performers,” he explained. “It is falling dark on us and it seems we’ve lost our way. We were told there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills.” 

“There are no villages,” Dany told him, “only the city of King’s Landing, but it’s many miles from here.”

His smile turned wicked. “Then there will be no one to hear you scream, will there?” he murmured and snapped his fingers. “Hound.”

With frightening agility the Brute rushed forward, one large meaty hand coming toward her face. 

That was all Dany remembered until she awoke to the lapping of water. Wool covered her face, thick and itchy. She was wrapped in a blanket, being carried in strong arms, and soon the brute she assumed, because who else, was putting her in the bottom of a boat. The gentle sway beneath her made her certain. For the briefest of moments she thought to scream out, or to at the very least speak to her captors, but the trio began talking and she thought it better to listen. She didn’t have to listen for long before it got quite hard to hear. The terrible pounding of her heart drowned out all else. 

“I think we should just leave her on shore,” the Brute said, his voice close, deep and very rough.

“The less you think, the happier I’ll be,” the leader answered. There was the sound of ripping cloth. 

“What is that?” another asked. The girl.

“Fabric from the uniform of an officer of the Riverlands,” the leader replied. “I put some on the horse’s saddle as well.”

“I still think—” the Brute began. 

“She must be found dead in the Riverlands or we will not be paid! Is that clear enough for you?” The leader again, growing furious.

_Found dead? In the Riverlands?_

Neither was making any sort of sense to her just then, her mind and heart both running a panicked race. If she were honest with herself, the _dead_ part wasn't much of a surprise, though she had hoped maybe it was just a kidnapping for a hefty ransom. But why the Riverlands, she wondered. She hadn't heard any rumblings of upset within the keep, or anywhere for that matter, not since that unfortunate incident years ago when Lady Sansa Tully made the quickest royal visit ever recorded. 

“I heard you, I’m not deaf,” the Brute barked back, “but I’d feel better if I knew what the hells was going on,” he grumbled. “Maybe I look big and stupid to most, doesn't mean I am.” 

“The reason people think you’re so stupid,” the leader said, “is because you are so stupid. It has nothing to do with your looks.” 

There came the sound of a flapping of sail. “Watch your heads,” the girl cautioned, and then the boat was moving. “The people of King's Landing will not take her death well, Littlefinger. She became beloved the moment she walked among the smallfolk. You saw it.”

“That was the whole point! They want a war with the Blackfish,” this Littlefinger sneered. “We’ve been paid to start it. It’s a fine line of work to be an expert in. If we do this perfectly, there will be a continual demand for our services.” 

“Well, I don’t like it at all,” the girl snarled. “I wish you had refused.” 

“The offer was too high.” 

“I don’t like killing her, she hasn't done a thing to deserve it,” the girl said. 

“The gods do it all the time; if it doesn’t bother them, don’t let it bother you.” 

Through all this, Dany had not moved. 

“Let’s just tell her we’re taking her away for ransom.” 

The Brute agreed with the girl. “She’s young and beautiful and has to be from a good home. Doubt she’s ever known suffering a day in her life. She’ll go crazy on us if she knows what’s coming. I’ll tell you this, I’m not listening to her shriek and scream for days on end.”

“There you go, being stupid again. She already knows,” Littlefinger said. “She’s been awake for quite a while and heard every word we’ve spoken.” 

Dany lay under the blanket, stone still, eyes wide, not a breath coming or going. _How could he possibly know?_

“And just how do you know that?” the girl asked, hissing under her breath. 

“Because I’m observant,” Littlefinger said. “She twitched just before Sandor put her down. Are you giving it full sail?” 

“As much as I can,” the girl answered from the tiller Dany assumed. 

“We have an hour on them, so we’re not at risk yet. It will take her horse perhaps twenty-seven minutes to reach the keep, a few minutes more for them to figure out what happened and, since we left an obvious trail, they should be after us within the hour. But we should reach the Cliffs in fifteen minutes beyond that and, with any luck at all, the border by the next dawn, then she dies. Her body will still be quite warm when the Prince reaches her mutilated form. I only wish we could stick around for his grief. It should be Homeric.” 

Why would he let her know his plans? _Because he meant to kill her. Once she was dead who would she tell? What did it matter?_

“You are going back to sleep now, my Lady,” the Brute said, and his fingers suddenly were grasping her shoulder, her neck, and she was unconscious again. . . 

Dany didn’t know how long she was out, but the boat still swayed gently beneath her when her eyes fluttered open again, the thick woolen blanket still shielding her. Without daring to think she threw the blanket aside and dove deep into the Narrow Sea. She stayed under for as long as she dared and then surfaced, starting to swim across the moonless water with every ounce of strength remaining to her while hoping she was headed toward land and not away from it. Behind her in the darkness there was much yelling. 

“Go in, go in!” Littlefinger screamed. 

“I’ll sink like a stone,” from the Brute. 

“You’re better than I am,” from the girl. “My arms and legs are too short. I’d never catch her.”

Dany continued to leave them behind her swimming with all her might, her tied hands making it quite difficult. Her arms ached from the effort but she gave them no rest. Her legs kicked and her heart pounded. 

“I can hear her kicking,” Littlefinger said. “Veer left.” 

Dany went into her breast stroke, and kept her legs beneath the surface, silently swimming further away. 

“Where is she?” shrieked Littlefinger. 

“The sharks will get her, don’t worry,” cautioned the girl. 

_Oh dear, she wished she hadn’t heard that._

“Princess,” Littlefinger called, “do you know what happens to sharks when they smell blood in the water? They go mad. Lose their minds completely. There’s no controlling their wildness. They rip and shred and chew and devour. We’re safe in this boat, Princess, and there isn’t any blood in the water yet, so you’re probably safe too, but I have a knife in my hand, my Lady, and if you don’t come back I’ll cut my arms and my legs and I’ll catch the blood in a cup and I’ll fling it as far as I can. They’ll smell it in the water even if they’re miles away. They swim fast Princess when the blood calls to them and I’m afraid you won’t be beautiful for long.” 

Dany hesitated, silently treading water. Around her now, although it was surely her imagination, she seemed to be hearing the swish of giant tails and the gnashing of sharp teeth. 

“Come back now. I will give you no other warning.” 

If she went back, they would kill her anyway, so what difference did it make? At least death by mad sharks was sure to be quicker. Hopefully?

“If you come back now,” Littlefinger called again, “I give you my word as a gentleman and assassin that you will die totally without pain. I assure you, my Lady you will get no such promise from the sharks.” 

The swishing and gnashing sounds grew closer in the pitch black beneath her. All around her it was night. Dany began to tremble with fear. She was terribly ashamed of herself but there it was. She only wished she could see for a minute if there really were sharks and if he really would cut himself. 

Littlefinger winced out loud. 

“He just cut his arm, Lady,” the Brute called out. “He’s catching the blood in a cup now. There must be a half-inch in the bottom.” Littlefinger winced again. “He cut his leg,” the Brute went on. “The cup’s getting full.” 

She didn't believe them. There were no sharks in the water and there was no blood in his cup. 

“My arm is back to throw,” Littlefinger said. “Call out your location or not, the choice is yours.” She was not going to make a peep, Dany decided. “Farewell,” from Littlefinger. There was the splashing sound of liquid landing on liquid. A deathly quiet pause. Then the sharks went mad—

All around her, Dany could hear them gnashing their teeth and thrashing their mighty tails, the water splashing terribly. Nothing could save her, she realized. She was fish food. Shark bait. But would that be so bad? She had already decided it would be quick, and hadn't she wanted to go to Jon for years now? Yes. And right then she decided choosing her death was the best she could hope for. 

She closed her eyes and pictured his sweet face, riotous curls blowing in the wind, stormy eyes squinting as he smiled at her, his hand held out for her to take. 

_I'm coming, my love._

But it was not meant to be, the moon came out of hiding and they spotted her. 

“There she is!” shouted Littlefinger, and like lightning the girl turned the boat and as it drew close the Brute reached out a giant arm and then she was back in the safety of her murderers while all around them the sharks bumped into each other in wild frustration. 

“Keep her warm,” the girl said from the tiller, tossing her cloak to the Brute. 

“Silly girl. You’ll probably catch cold now,” the Brute grunted at her, wrapping Dany into the cloak’s folds, rubbing and shaking her roughly. 

“I don’t think a chill will matter much, do you?” she asked in way of answer, teeth chattering. “Seeing as you all plan to kill me at dawn.” 

“He’ll do the actual killing,” the Brute said, nodding his scraggly head at Littlefinger, who was wrapping cloth around his cuts. “We’ll just hold you.” 

“Hold your fool tongue,” Littlefinger commanded. The Brute immediately hushed. 

“I don’t think he’s a fool,” Dany said in his defense, why she didn’t know. Anger she supposed. The entire situation made her burn with rage. What good that did her. “And I don’t think you’re so smart either. Cutting yourself like you did. Those cuts will get infected soon enough. You’ll probably die. What sort of intelligent man dies from simple cuts?”

“I will not die! And besides you’re in this boat again, are you not?” Littlefinger asked as he crossed toward her, smirking sinisterly. “Once women are sufficiently frightened, they scream.” 

“But I didn’t scream; the moon came out,” answered Dany somewhat triumphantly. Littlefinger struck her. The blow left her stunned and furious. No one had ever dared, not even her father.

She took delight in seeing she wasn't the only one perturbed. “Enough of that,” the Brute growled as he grabbed Littlefinger’s wrist in his huge hand. 

Littlefinger stared dead at the giant with cold blue eyes before looking over his shoulder at the girl for a long moment. He turned back to the brute with a smile. “Do you really want to fight me, Hound? I don’t think you do.” 

While the words weren't said, Dany could see the silent exchange well enough. The Hound was protective of the girl, whatever her name was, and Littlefinger had just threatened her. Anger was quite evident in the Hound’s eyes, but a shadow fell over them and Dany knew what his answer would be before he voiced it.

“No,” he mumbled. “But don’t hit this one again. Force is mine. Strike me if you feel the need. I won’t care. She’s only doing what anyone in her place would.”

With a sneer Littlefinger jerked his hand free from the Hound's grip and returned to the other side of the boat. “She would have screamed,” he said. “She was about to cry out. My plan was perfect as all my plans are perfect. It was the moon’s ill timing that robbed me of perfection.” He scowled unforgivingly at the yellow wedge above them before staring ahead. 

Daenerys shared a quiet moment with the Hound as he found the blanket and wrapped it around her legs. Neither of them said a word, but his gentle eyes told her he was sorry, that none of this had been his doing. 

She gave him a small smile of thanks while her mind began to work. 

Littlefinger was indeed a problem, but if she played the game right she was almost positively sure she could convince the Hound to help her escape. And if she could convince him, he might convince the girl, and together perhaps they could all three outdo Littlefinger. 

Whatever they were being paid she knew Joffrey had more. He might not love her, nor she him, but he would pay to have her back if for no other reason than to save face with the Kingdoms.

The Hound left her side and went to the girl, the two of them whispering quietly to one another. Her eyes grew heavy as she watched them. She was suddenly so very tired, her head aching, muscles feeling leaden from her frantic swim. Sleep might be a good idea. There was nothing she could do to save herself stuck in the boat as she was. They meant to take her to the Riverlands so they would have to leave the sea at some point. That would be her best chance. There would be time to befriend the Hound and the girl, time to convince them to take her back, time to outsmart Littlefinger. Until then she would rest. She’d need all her strength and wits about her. 

And so she slept, for how long she had no clue, but shouting woke her and she opened her eyes to see the night beginning to fade to day and Littlefinger was standing at the bow, pointing and shouting still.

“There! There they are! The Cliffs of Insanity.” 

And indeed there they were. Rising straight and sheer from the water, a thousand feet into the dark grey sky. 

“Sail straight for the steepest part,” Littlefinger commanded. 

“What do you think I’m doing?” the girl snipped.

Dany did not understand. Going up the Cliffs could hardly be done, and no one had ever mentioned secret passages through them. Yet here they were, sailing closer and closer to the mighty rocks, now surely less than a quarter-mile away. 

For the first time Littlefinger allowed himself a smile. “All is well. I was afraid your little jaunt in the water was going to cost me too much time, Princess. I had allowed an hour of safety. There must still be fifty minutes of it left. We’re miles ahead of anybody. Perfectly safe.”

“No one could be following us yet?” the girl asked from the tiller. 

“No one,” Littlefinger assured her. “It would be inconceivable.” 

“Absolutely inconceivable?” 

“Absolutely, completely, and, in all other ways, inconceivable,” Littlefinger reassured her. “Why do you ask?” 

“Because,” the girl replied. “I just happened to look back and someone's there.” 

They all whirled. Someone or something was indeed there. Less than a mile behind them across the fog covered waters was another sailing boat, small, painted what looked like black, with a giant sail that billowed like a dark cloud in the night, and a single man at the tiller. A man in black. 

The girl looked at Littlefinger. “It must just be some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise alone in shark-infested waters.” 

“There is probably a more logical explanation,” Littlefinger said. “But since no one in the Riverlands could possibly know what we’re doing, and no one in King’s Landing could have gotten here so quickly, he is definitely not, however much it may look like it, following us. It is a coincidence and nothing more.” 

“He’s bloody gaining on us,” the Hound grunted. 

“That is also inconceivable,” Littlefinger said. “Before I stole this boat we’re in, I made many inquiries as to which was the fastest ship on all of King's Landing and everyone agreed it was this one.” 

“Of course you’re right,” the Hound agreed, staring back. “He isn’t gaining on us. He’s just getting bloody closer, that’s all.” 

“It’s the angle we’re looking from and nothing more,” said Littlefinger. 

Dany could not take her eyes from the great black sail. The three murderers she was with certainly frightened her. But somehow, for reasons she could never begin to explain, the man in black frightened her more. 

“All right, look sharp,” Littlefinger said then, just a drop of edginess in his voice. 

The Cliffs of Insanity were very close now. The girl maneuvered the craft expertly, which was not easy. The waves were rolling in toward the rocks and the spray was blinding. Dany shielded her eyes and put her head straight back, staring up into the darkness toward the top, which seemed shrouded in clouds and wholly out of reach.

They were aptly named.

To climb them was certainly insanity.

What little hope she had gathered to escape once they reached land vanished like a whiff of smoke. She would die that day. Not strangled or stabbed or smothered by murderers. No, she would fall to her death, crash to the rocks like a cup of fine china knocked from a table to shatter into a dozen pieces. 


	4. The Man in Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dreadful foe tracks Dany and her kidnappers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the high adventure begin and please be gentle on the man in black towards the end, his heart had most definitely been crushed. He's feeling that anger that goes hand and hand with grief. He'll move past it quickly.

  
  


Littlefinger jumped from the boat the moment the girl got them to the cliff's edge and to Dany's astonishment there was a rope waiting for him. Thick as the Hound's forearm at least. Her eyes followed it up and up and up as Littlefinger yanked and pulled on it, and let his full weight dangle from it too. It held firm. How she couldn't imagine. The length was mind boggling enough, but the strength of whatever it was tied to… It had to be the mountain of rock itself. 

“Hurry up, all of you,” Littlefinger snarled. “If that man is following us, which is still inconceivable in my opinion, we have to get to the top in time to cut the rope before he gets close.”

“If your plan was for me to climb that, you're most definitely the fool,” Dany scoffed. “I won't get five feet before my arms give out.”

“Shut your mouth and get out of the boat Princess and you’ll see how _not_ foolish I am.”

The girl sprung from the tiller and was standing by Littlefinger quick as a blink, her movements lithe as a dancer's. Daenerys was still blinking in shock at all that was happening when the Hound plucked her up and deposited her beside her other captors. He too was with them soon enough, their little boat drifting away. 

“Load me up,” he grunted at them and it was only then that Daenerys noticed the odd sort of harness he was wearing. Wide straps over his shoulders and another twice as thick as those around his middle, while three sturdy looking loops hung from his sides and back. 

The girl held out the one closest to Dany. “Duck under,” she ordered. 

Knowing she really had no other options she did as told and the girl tucked the strap beneath her bottom making a sort of swing for her before she tied her already bound hands to the strap at the Hound's shoulder. Littlefinger was already hanging from the other side and shortly after the girl hung from his back. 

“Let's go!” Littlefinger snapped and the Hound grasped the rope in both hands and began to climb with the ease of a spider ascending his web. 

Hand over hand and arm over arm he went, the other three dangling from him like limpets. Well except for Daenerys who was clutched to him as tight as moss clings to rocks. She really didn't fancy falling to her death. 

They were fifty feet in a flash, a hundred in a hurry. 

And while she did her best to look nowhere but the Hound's shoulder, Littlefinger was focused on the sleek black ship that seemed to be skimming across the water at unnatural speed. Indeed it was nearly to the cliff's edge, only a quarter mile away now. 

“Faster, you fool!” he screamed at the Hound.

“I'm going as fast as I can,” he growled back.

“Well it's not fast enough!”

“You swore he wasn’t following us so what’s the rush?”

“Following us or no, you’re being paid to do a job, so do it!”

All the yelling was not doing Daenerys’ nerves any favors, the girl though only looked annoyed, rolling her eyes at her fellow murderers. 

“What's your name?” Dany asked her, hoping to distract herself.

“Why do you need to know that?”

She gave a shrug. “Is it wrong of me to want to know the name of those who plan to kill me? Afraid I might tell someone as I die?”

The girl scowled fiercely. “I'm not afraid of anything.”

Dany just blinked at her, still bumping against the Hound's side as he continued to climb. The girl turned away with another roll of her eyes and Dany heard her huff just before she turned and faced her again. 

“My name is Arya Stark,” she said quietly but with such pride and passion Daenerys felt awed. And she felt something else as well, a familiarity. 

The girl had suffered greatly, of that Dany had no doubt.

“I wish we had met under different circumstances Arya Stark,” she returned. “I believe your story might be as fraught with heartache as my own. Perhaps we could've been friends.”

Arya stared at her, studied her eyes as they were pulled further and further up by the Hound’s unbelievable strength and Daenerys let her see it all. Her own pride, her pain, her purpose. And she saw the moment the girl felt the comradery, her grey eyes widening as she gave a tiny nod of her head. Maybe if they managed to make it to the top and get away from the man in black dogging their heels she still had a chance of surviving.

“We halfway yet?” the Hound asked, his tireless arms pulling them higher and higher, over and over.

Arya and Daenerys both dropped their heads back and looked up. The top was surely closer, but still hidden in misty clouds. They looked down and gasped, but for entirely different reasons. 

The great height they dangled from had Daenerys’ head and belly spinning. She squeezed her eyes shut and began to pray to gods she’d long since given up on. 

“We're a bit over halfway,” Arya told the Hound, “but he’s made it to the cliffs.”

There was no need to ask who _he_ was.

“Inconceivable!” Littlefinger hissed.

Six hundred feet in the air they hung. The Hound never ceased his climb. He wasn't even breathing hard. Six hundred and twenty feet. Six hundred and fifty. Faster now. Seven hundred. 

“He’s out of his boat. And on our rope,” from Arya. 

From the Hound, “I feel him. The rope’s trembling from his weight.”

“He’ll never catch us!” Littlefinger swore.

“I think you’re wrong,” Arya dared to argue.

“Inconceivable!”

Daenerys, tied hand and foot and sick with fear, finally opened her eyes and took it all in. The cliffs above, the sea below. Arya, Littlefinger, and the Hound. The wraith in black flying up the rope beneath them. Death surrounded her and she felt what little hope she’d had flee. 

“Do you believe in any gods, Princess?” Arya asked.

Her eyes shot to the girl’s. “I used to, but no more.”

“Why?”

“They took my love.”

“Do you know why?” Dany shook her head. “Because there is only one god and his name is death.”

Daenerys had thought for a fleeting moment the girl was trying to distract and soothe her fears, now she wasn't so certain. Her words were having the opposite effect at any rate.

Arya threw another question at her. “What do we say to the god of death?”

“I don't know.”

“Not today.”

She thought on those simple words and could see the value in them given the situation they were in, but she hadn't forgotten their plans for her. “Easy for you to say, your companions don't wish to murder you.”

“How fast is he?” the Hound asked, breaking into their conversation.

“I’ve never seen anything like him,” Arya answered, awe and fear in her words as she looked down once more.

“You’re supposed to be this amazing thing,” Littlefinger shrieked at the Hound again. “Yet he's catching us. Perhaps I should've hired him instead.”

“Does he have three fucking people hanging off him? I don't think so. Shut your bloody trap before I drop us all,” the Hound warned. 

“Only a hundred feet to go Hound,” Arya told him with an encouraging slap to his back. “He’s halfway, but you’ve got him beat. Keep going.”

And go he did. She never would have believed it had she not lived it, but the Hound had them at the top a few minutes later, Arya and Littlefinger dragging themselves up and then her too. She was discarded to a rock, Arya helping the Hound to his feet and Littlefinger sawing at the thick rope with his dagger, grinning with glee. 

She almost felt pity for the man in black who would certainly fall to his death in a few moments more. His perseverance lended her to believe he certainly had heart, whether it was black or not. 

The rope gave way, slithering off like a great snake as Littlefinger gave a shout of triumph. Arya and Hound hurried to the edge and looked over. “Bloody hells, he did it,” the girl said.

“Did what?” Littlefinger asked, scrambling over to them only to see the man in black clinging to the cliff face. “He didn't fall!? Inconceivable!”

Arya cut him a doubt-filled scowl. “You keep saying that word. I don't think it means what you think it means.”

“Shut your mouth. No one asked you,” he snarled. “I do however order you to stay here and take care of him.”

“Take care of him?”

Littlefinger rolled his eyes. “He has a sword, you have a sword. Use yours better.” 

Her eyes sparkled, a smile splitting her face. “Can I do it right handed?”

“I don't care how you do it, just kill him!” Littlefinger hissed. “Hound, get the Princess and let's go.”

The Hound grabbed Arya instead. “No playing, do you hear me, girl? Finish him and be done with it. He’s… not right. The way he sailed, how he climbed that rope, clings to that cliff. He’ll know well how to use that sword strapped to his side.”

“I’ll be fine, don't worry. But hurry up so you have a good lead just in case.”

Littlefinger let out a growl. “I said let's go!”

Arya watched them leave and pulled her beloved sword from her side. Needle, she called it. Forged by her father himself. She'd trained for years with more than one master until she was a master herself. All so she could kill the man who had taken her father from her. 

The six-fingered man.

It had been Prince Joffery’s order, but another had swung the sword that killed Ned Stark, all because the Prince had been displeased. He’d worn a hood, so she did not know his face, nor his name, but she knew something else about him. Just before he had gripped the sword that took her father's head she'd seen his gloved hand and the six fingers it held. She had searched for him for years and would not stop until she found him. She would see the end of him even if it was done with her dying breath. 

But first, the man in black. 

She went to the cliff’s edge again and watched him climb. He was fifty feet below and while he wasn't as fast as he’d been on the rope, his skill was still impressive. She was tired of waiting though, it had been too long since she’d had a worthy opponent, she was as eager to face him as a rooster was for the sun to rise. 

“Hello,” she hollered when she could wait no more. The man in black glanced up and grunted. “I’ve been watching you.” He nodded and selected a new rock to grasp onto. “Slow going, huh?” she asked. 

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude,” the man in black said finally, “but I’m a bit busy right now, I’d really rather you didn't distract me.”

“Sorry,” Arya muttered. The man in black grunted again and picked another handhold, rising higher. “I don’t suppose you could hurry up though, could you? It's boring up here. I haven't had a good fight in a long time.”

“If you’re in such a hurry,” he hollered, clearly quite angry now, “you could throw me a rope or a tree branch or something else useful.” 

“Yeah, well, I would but,” she began, “are you really going to take my help? I’m only waiting up here to kill you, you know?” 

“That does put a damper on our relationship,” he noted with a grunt as he pulled himself further up. “I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait.” 

Forty-three feet left. Forty-one. She had a thought.

“I could give you my word as a daughter of the North.”

“No good,” he replied. “I’ve known too many from the North.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped, offended. She hadn't been home since she’d left, but everyone had been quite agreeable that she'd known. 

He only grunted and the meager response was driving her crazy. She said as much too. “I’m going crazy up here.” 

“Anytime you want to swap places, I’d be more than happy to,” he snarled back.

Thirty-nine feet. And resting. He just hung there, feet dangling, the entire weight of his body supported by the strength of his hand jammed into a crevice. 

“That close to the top and that's all you’ve got?” she poked.

He looked up at her then and she could see his lip was snarled. “It’s been a bit of a climb,” he put on, “I’m tired. I’ll be fine in a quarter-hour or so.” 

_Another quarter-hour! Bloody hells._

“Look, there's a piece of extra rope up here we didn’t need, I’ll just drop it down and you grab hold and I’ll pull and—” 

“No good,” he said, cutting her off. “You might pull, if you even can, you're too skinny from the looks of it. But then again, you also might let go, which, since you’re in such a hurry to kill me, would certainly get the job done quicker.” 

Arya nearly stomped her foot, but it wouldn't do to lose her temper. Not with an enemy. “I want to fight you, not drop you off a cliff. And besides, you wouldn’t even know I was going to kill you if I hadn’t been the one to say so. Doesn’t that tell you I can be trusted?” 

“Frankly, and I hope you won’t be insulted, no.” 

_Dammit to all seven hells._ “There’s no way you’ll trust me?” 

“Nothing comes to mind.” 

Another thought came to hers and she raised her right hand high. “I swear on the soul of Eddard Stark, you will reach the top alive!” 

The man in black was silent for a long time. A very long time. Then he looked up again, his snarl nowhere to be seen. “I don't know this Eddard of yours,” he said slowly, softly, “but something in your tone tells me I should believe you. Throw the rope.”

Arya did just that, hoping it would hold long enough to get him to the top. She did her best to pull, but he wasn't a light weight fellow. Between the two of them though, his climbing and her pulling, he was soon beside her, collapsed upon a rock breathing heavily. 

“Thank you,” he told her and reached to pull his sword.

She shook her head and took a seat at his side. “Rest for a bit. It’ll be a better fight if you have your strength.”

Grey eyes studied her through his mask. “Thank you, again. I’m not sure that's the wisest choice for you, but I appreciate it all the same.”

“Any chance you have six fingers on your right hand?”

He froze and stared at her hard again. “Do you always start conversations this way?”

“A six-fingered man killed my father, I want him dead, but I’m having trouble finding him.”

The man in black held up his right hand and shook it, fingers spread. 

Five, of course. She closed her eyes and gave a sigh. 

“Sorry I'm not him,” the man in black said softly. “I lost my father at a young age, I know the pain well. I hope you find him one day.”

Arya gave him a nod and let it go. “My boss says you aren't following us, but I believe you are.”

He took off his boot and poured out the dust and rocks he’d collected during his climb. “You would be correct.”

“Why?”

“You have something very valuable to me.”

“Littlefinger will never sell to you.”

He pulled his boot back on and took off the other. “I'm not looking to buy.”

She wondered at him a moment. He was certainly determined, ready to risk life and limb. But not money. Yet he claimed the Princess was very valuable. His words had not been said flippantly either, but with great truth behind them. 

“You're the reason her heart aches, aren't you?”

His head whipped around to hers, eyes flashing dangerously. He did not reply and she clamped her mouth shut. It would not do to anger him just before they fought. She left his side and took in their terrain. 

It was splendid really. Trees to dodge around, roots to dance over, rocks to jump from. The cliff’s edge so close. She couldn't have asked for a better place for a fight. 

“I think I’m ready,” he said as he stood. “You’ve been kind, feels wrong to keep taking advantage.”

Arya spun around. “Let's get on with it then.”

The man in black unsheathed his sword. It was a fine blade. Valyrian steel by the looks of it. But it did not matter the size, nor the make. She would end him. 

She drew Needle and gripped it deftly in her right hand. “You seem a decent enough fellow,” she said. “I almost hate to kill you.” 

“You seem decent yourself,” he answered. “I hate to die.”

“Begin.”

Steel clashed against steel, singing out the song she loved so much. He met her thrust for thrust and strike for strike. As light on his feet as she was, his spins and twists that of a dancer's. She knew within moments she had finally met her match, her equal, another who loved the sword as much as she did.

She crowed, her smile bright, the joy of the fight filling her veins. “You’re wonderful!”

“Thank you, I’ve trained very hard to be so.”

“I think I have to admit,” she panted, swiping at him again, “you’re better than me.”

He blocked her effortlessly. “What’s the smile for then?” 

“Because I know something you don't know.”

“Care to tell me?”

She tossed Needle from her right hand to her left and gave a shout of glee. “I’m not right handed.”

The man in black retreated before the slashing of her nimble sword. He tried to sidestep, tried to parry, tried to somehow escape the doom that was now inevitable. But there was no way. She was too fast. He blocked fifty thrusts, but the fifty-first flicked through, and his left arm was bleeding. He thwarted thirty swings, but not the thirty-first, and his shoulder bled too.

There was no dealing with her, and slowly the deadly cliff’s edge became a factor in the fight. The man in black was being forced to doom. But he was brave, and he was strong, and the cuts did not make him beg for mercy, and he showed no fear behind his black mask.

“You're amazing,” he told her.

“Should be after this long,” she grunted as she pushed against him, doing her best to throw off his balance and off the cliff.

He groaned, pushing right back, the steel blades between them grinding. “There's something I should tell you.”

“Tell me.”

She was shoved away quick as a blink. “I'm not left handed,” he declared, his sword tossed to his right hand, the lethal blade twirled around and pointed straight at her. 

They danced along the plateau again, steel flashing, almost invisible so quick were their strikes. The earth trembled and the skies shook and Arya was losing. She went for the trees, but the man in black would have none of it, twisting and spinning and slashing until she retreated to the rocks. But those too were blocked. 

Out in the open the unbelievable became true. He _was_ better than her. Not by much mind you, but in a dozen tiny ways. A hair quicker, a fraction faster, more than a speck stronger. Barely enough to measure, but there all the same. 

And she knew it would be her end.

But still she met him strike for strike. Her last bit of energy and heart flew through her veins and she made every attempt, tried every trick, used every lesson she ever learned. But none of it was enough.

He flicked her sword out of her hand with a twist of his wrist before she could take another breath and she felt fear begin to creep in. But she couldn't let it. Spinning away she dove for the low tree branch behind her and used it to swing herself out of his reach and back to Needle, picking it up quickly. She spun around and grinned at him and the cheeky bastard threw his sword at her!

It pierced the ground not far from her feet and before she could think to snatch it up he had lept for the same branch she had, stealing her attention. But of course he had to show off, swinging himself in a great arc around the branch and then again before landing elegantly upon his feet and taking his sword in hand. 

“Who the hells are you?” Arya asked, mystified.

“No one of consequence.”

“I have to know.”

“Get used to disappointment,” he said dismissively.

Arya gave a shrug and a nod and went back to fighting. 

But she was blocked by the man in black. She was shackled. By the man in black. She was baffled, thwarted, outdone. 

Beaten.

By the man in black.

With a final flick of his wrist her beloved sword flew from her hand again and she fell to her knees, defeated. “Make it quick, please,” she begged and closed her eyes, waiting for the slice of steel that would cut her down, waiting to run into her father's open arms. 

No matter the shame she felt, he would only feel joy to have her with him again, that she knew.

“Others take me if I ever kill an artist like you. I’d rather lose my sword arm. But,” he clubbed her head with the thick pommel of his sword, “since you can't be following me.” He drug her unconscious body to a tree and tied her to it. “I hope when you wake up you realize I have great respect,” he said and raced off toward the border following the fresh tracks of his prey.

  
  


—

  
  


They’d been watching and waiting, sure Arya would come running over the rise soon and they could continue on their mission. But it wasn't her, instead the man in black came sprinting towards them, his feet carrying him much too quickly.

“I should've stayed and shoved him off myself,” Littlefinger snarled 

The Hound growled lowly. “Bloody hells, I told her not to play games.”

“Well obviously she didn't listen. Untie her feet,” he ordered, a hand thrown in Daenerys direction.

Sandor came forward and kneeled in front of Dany where she sat on a boulder they'd allowed her to rest on. They exchanged a long look as he untied her feet, his big hands gently rubbing some feeling back into them. Once again she saw sorrow in his eyes and she felt a pinch herself. For all that Arya had been a part of her kidnapping and intended death, she'd had hopes the girl would change her mind and help her instead. But now she couldn't, for surely the wraith that continued to track them had killed her. 

“I'm sorry for your friend,” she offered quietly. 

He looked surprised by that, but only for a split second. “He isn't quick, or strong,” he whispered. “Run the moment you can and don't stop. I’ll take care of this man in black.”

Before she could thank him for his kindness Littlefinger jerked Daenerys to her feet and glared up at him. “Finish him, do you hear me? Make it painful, he’s gotten on my last nerve.”

“He’ll suffer for killing her. I won't make it quick.”

“Take all the time you want, I don’t care. He just better be dead once you're finished.”

With a curt nod, the Hound watched them run off before hiding himself behind one of the largest boulders and waited, watching. 

Soon enough the man in black came upon the field of boulders and stopped his running, slowing to a cautious pace, eyes darting around. Searching for something. He sensed Sandor somehow. 

His advantage of surprise dwindling, the Hound picked up a rock the size of a cannonball and aimed at a crack in the mountain thirty yards away. Swoosh. Dead center and only missing the man in black’s head by scant inches. Purposely, of course. 

The pirate, for that’s what he appeared to Sandor’s eyes, startled back and pulled his sword the moment he spotted him coming from behind his boulder. 

“I could've killed you,” Sandor told him. “I didn't have to miss.”

“I have no doubt.”

He picked up another rock, bigger than the last. “Did you kill the girl?”

The man in black shook his head, still safe atop his shoulders. “No. It would’ve been a crime.”

“Aren’t you a criminal? Why should I believe you?”

“Depends on who you ask and aren't you as well?”

Perhaps he had him there. “I’m asking you and what I am doesn't matter.”

The man in black rolled his eyes behind his mask. “Alright. No. I don't call myself a criminal. More of a liberator I suppose you’d say,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“You want the Princess.” The pirate nodded his head. “Freeing her for Prince Joffrey, are you?”

A bitter laugh escaped the man in black. So dark and hostile it sounded it had Sandor’s stomach twisting. “I’d rather her dead than in that little bastard's hands,” he spit.

That shocked Sandor into silence. A lengthy one.

“What happens now?” the pirate asked. 

“I do my job.”

“And what's that?”

Sandor very nearly said ‘Killing you.’ but something held the words behind his teeth. “You swear she's still alive?”

The man nodded. “I swear it. She’ll have a headache when she wakes, and probably a deeply wounded pride, but she’ll wake. As I said, it would've been a crime to kill such heart and talent as her.”

He believed him. He was certainly surprised, but believed him all the same, and that changed things. “Then we'll just fight till one of us beats the other. Agreed?” the Hound asked.

The pirate straightened from his defensive stance. “You want to fight me?”

“I do, but I don't like easy fights, or unfair ones either,” the scarred giant told him.

“Glad to hear it. How do you suggest we keep it fair?” 

“We face each other like the gods intended,” Sandor said. “No tricks, no weapons, skill against skill alone.” 

“You’ll put down your rock and I’ll put down my sword and we’ll try to kill each other like civilized people, is that it?” 

“Or I can kill you now,” Sandor said gently, and raised the rock he still held in his hand. “I’m giving you a chance.” 

“Appreciated and accepted,” the man in black was quick to say. He began taking off his sword and scabbard. “But, I think the odds are _slightly_ in your favor at hand fighting.” 

“I’m not apologising for being bigger and stronger; it’s not my fault.” 

“Not blaming you,” said the man in black. 

“Let’s get to it then,” Sandor said and threw down his rock.

They circled each other, around and around, feeling each other out, until finally Sandor swiped at him, tired of the stalling. “Why do you wear a mask? Are you scarred like me, too afraid to show them? Some sort of coward?”

“No, I actually find them rather comfortable, everyone should be wearing them.”

Sandor tried to grab him, but the pirate slipped from his hold and disappeared between his legs. “You’re quick.”

“Good thing too,” he said, jumping to his feet from his graceful flipping roll.

He continued to evade his grasp and Sandor realized he was fighting someone who didn't follow the usual rules. He’d told Arya to watch him, that he wasn't right and now his warning was ringing in his own head. He needed to change tactics. But it was too late, the man in black had jumped from a small boulder and onto his back and had him in a stranglehold. 

The Hound swatted at him with his arms, tried to pry the pirate’s from around his neck, but neither worked. So he smashed him against a rock, once, twice, three times, certain it would shake him loose. Grunts and groans came from the man in black, but still he held on, held tight. 

He clawed at the man in black’s arms. He pounded his giant fists against them. By now he had no air. Sandor began to see the world turn pale. Unbelievably, he fell to his knees. 

He pounded still, but feebly. He fought, but his listless strikes wouldn't have harmed a child. There was no air, no nothing. He was going to die. That hadn't been their deal, but there it was. 

Only it wasn't. The split second before he collapsed to the ground, face first, nose smacking the dirt, the man in black let go. 

The Hound watched through spot covered vision, barely breathing, as the pirate stumbled back and leaned against a boulder until he caught his own breath.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but he felt a pat on his back and heard whispered words in his ears. “I wouldn't wish the headache you’ll have on anyone. Sleep well and dream of large women.”

  
  


—

  
  


Littlefinger was waiting for him. The Princess at his side, blindfolded, hands tied, the point of a blade at her lovely white throat. He'd even made a table for them. The man in black didn’t make him wait long.

“Welcome, Sir,” he greeted, the moment the man in black ran up on them and skidded to a halt at the picture they made. “I see you’ve beaten my sword, and my strength.”

“Aye.”

“Nearly worthless, both of them. But I suppose they gave me time to get us here. Tired perhaps?” he asked, _hoped._

The man in black gave a shrug. “Not much.”

Bravado, nothing more.

“It seems then it is down to you and me.”

“So it is,” he agreed, edging just a half-step closer. 

With a smile Littlefinger pushed the knife harder against Dany's throat. A quarter inch more and it would bring blood. “If you wish her dead, by all means keep moving,” he said. The man in black froze. “Better.” He nodded. “I do hope you understand I know what you’re trying to do,” Littlefinger said finally, “and I want it clear between us that I resent your behavior. You’re trying to kidnap what I've rightfully stolen, and I think it quite ungentlemanly.”

“Let me explain—” the man in black began, edging forward again. 

“You’re killing her,” Littlefinger warned, shoving harder with the knife. The Princess let out a quiet gasp. A drop of blood appeared at her throat, red against white. 

The man in black retreated. “Let me explain,” he said again, softly, from a distance, his hands up.

“There's nothing you could say that I do not already know. I’ve been at this game a long time.”

“I’ve come a very long way for her.”

“And I’ve done the same. Hired in fact, to do a job, one I’m very good at. Creating chaos. While it pleases me to cause you some, I’d much rather complete my task of killing her which will fill my pockets and throw the entire Seven Kingdoms into war. It's going to be glorious, she just needs to stop breathing in the very near future.”

The man in black considered him for a time, his head tilted. “Have you thought after all I’ve gone through I might become very angry if I fail? So angry that if she stops breathing, it's entirely possible _you_ might catch the same fatal illness soon after?”

Littlefinger scoffed. “Your threats mean nothing. I have no doubt you could kill me. But while you may be skilled with a sword, and strong, you cannot best my mind.”

“That smart, are you?”

“I am cunning, crafty and clever. Filled with deceit and guile. A knave, so shrewd. Cagey as well as calculating. As tricky as I am untrustworthy. As diabolical as I am vulpine… Surely you get the idea.”

“Since you're so certain you’ll gladly accept my challenge then,” said the man in black.

“And what challenge is that?”

“A battle of wits.” 

Littlefinger had to smile. “For the Princess?” 

“You read my mind.” 

“To the death?” 

“Correct again.” 

“I accept,” agreed Littlefinger. “Let us begin.”

“Pour the wine,” said the man in black as he took a seat across from them. 

Littlefinger filled the two goblets upon the crude table with a deep, ruby red wine. 

The man in black pulled from his dark clothing a small packet and handed it over to him. “Open it and inhale, but be careful not to touch.” 

Littlefinger took the packet and followed his instructions. “I smell nothing.” 

The man in black took the packet from him. “Wolfsbane powder. Odorless, tasteless and dissolves immediately in any liquid. Also happens to be the deadliest poison known to man.”

Littlefinger could not contain his devilish grin. Winning would be all too easy. 

“Would you be kind and pass the goblets over,” requested the man in black. 

“I never said I was kind. Take them yourself. This knife does not leave her pretty throat.”

With a silent snarl the man in black took the goblets and turned his back. Littlefinger snickered in anticipation while the would-be thief busied himself for a time. Finally he turned around and very carefully placed the goblets down. One in front of Littlefinger, the other in front of himself. 

“Where’s the poison?” 

“So the battle of wits has begun.”

The man in black nodded. “It ends when you decide where it is and we drink the wine and find out who’s right and who’s dead. We both drink, and swallow, at precisely the same time.”

“I must say I’m disappointed. I was hoping for more of a challenge after how effortlessly you bested my sword and strength. This is too simple.”

The man in black made a face of apathy. “Then choose.”

“All I have to do is deduce from what I know of you and the way your mind works. Are you the kind of man who would put the poison in his own glass, or that of your enemy's?”

“You're stalling.”

Littlefinger chuckled. “I'm enjoying myself is what I’m doing. No one has challenged me in an age.”

“Thought I was a disappointment.”

That had Littlefinger’s eyes narrowing. “May I smell the goblets?”

“Help yourself,” the man in black answered with a wave of his hand. “Just put them back where you found them.”

Littlefinger sniffed first his, and then the thief's. “Odorless, as you said.”

“And you're still stalling.”

He was beginning to raise Littlefinger’s ire, but he would not let him know. “A great fool would place the poison in his own goblet, because he would know only another great fool would choose the wine placed in front of him. I am clearly no great fool, so I cannot choose the wine in front of me.”

“That your choice?”

“Of course not,” Littlefinger laughed outright. “You know I’m no great fool and would never fall for such a trick. So therefore I cannot reach for yours.”

“Keep going,” the man in black said with a flick of his fingers.

“So I’ve decided your goblet most likely contains the poison. But Wolfsbane is rarely ever used by anyone who isn't nefarious. Which you obviously are seeing as you intend to steal from me. Therefore I cannot trust you, which means I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.”

The man in black scratched at his bearded chin but made no comment. 

“But,” Littlefinger went on, “you knew I knew you were a criminal, therefore I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”

“Truly you have a dizzying intellect,” murmured the man in black.

“You have beaten my Brute which means you’re exceptionally strong. Exceptionally strong men are convinced they’re too powerful to die. Too powerful even for Wolfsbane, so you could’ve put it in your own cup trusting on your strength to save you. Thus I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you.”

The man in black was very nervous now.

“But you also bested my sword which means you’ve studied because she studied many years for her excellence and if you can study you are clearly more than simply strong; you’re aware of how mortal we all are and you do not wish to die so you would’ve kept the poison as far from yourself as possible. Therefore I can clearly not choose the one in front of me.”

“You’re rying to get me to give me something away with all your chatter,” said the man in black angrily. “It won’t work. You’ll learn nothing for me.”

“I have already learned everything from you,” said Littlefinger. “I know where the poison is,” he declared.

The man in black scoffed. “Only a genius could’ve figured it out.”

“How fortunate for me I happen to be one,” said Littlefinger, growing more and more amused by the moment. 

“You don't frighten me,” said the man in black but there was fear all through his voice.

“Shall we drink then?”

The man in black waved his hand between the globets. “Pick, choose, quit dragging it out. I'm bored. You don’t know, you couldn’t know.”

Littlefinger only smiled, then he gasped, eyes wide and pointed off behind the man in black. “What in the world can that be?” he asked.

The man in black spun around and looked. “I don’t see anything.”

“Oh well, I could’ve sworn I saw something. No matter.” Littlefinger began to laugh softly to himself.

“What’s so funny,” said the man in black.

“I’ll tell you in a moment,” said Littlefinger, “but first let’s drink.”

He picked up his own wine and the man in black picked up the one in front of him and they drank.

“You guessed wrong,” said the man in black as he sat his goblet down with a smile.

“You only think I guessed wrong,” said Littlefinger, his laughter ringing louder. “That’s what's so amusing. I switch globlets when your back was turned!”

There was nothing for the man in black to say to that.

“Fool!” cried Littlefinger. “You fell victim to one of the classic blunders.”

He laughed and laughed, staying quite cheery until the Wolfsbane took effect. 

The man in black stepped quickly over the corpse and roughly ripped the blindfold from the Princess’ eyes. 

“I heard everything that happ— Oh,” she breathed, as she had never been next to a dead man before. “He’s dead.”

“I let him die laughing,” said the man in black. “Pray I do as much for you.” His words and tone filled her with unease as he roughly lifted her hands, slashed her bonds, put her on her feet, and started to pull her along. 

“Please,” she asked. “Give me a moment to gather myself.” 

The man in black released his grip. Dany rubbed her wrists, then massaged her ankles. She took a final look at Littlefinger. “To think,” she murmured, “all that time it was your cup that was poisoned.” 

“Both of them were poisoned,” he told her. “I’ve spent the past two years building up an immunity to Wolfsbane.” 

Dany looked at him. He was terrifying to her, masked and hooded and dangerous; his voice strained and rough. “Who are you?” she asked. “And why do you want me?”

“I am no one to be trifled with,” he replied quietly. “That’s all you need to know.” And with that he yanked her upright. “You’ve had your moment.” Again he pulled her after him, and this time she could do nothing but follow.

They ran along the mountain path, his grip on her wrist painful. Night had fallen again and the moonlight was very bright, and there were rocks everywhere, and to Dany it all looked dead and white as bleached bone, like the moon. She had spent an entire day with three murderers who were openly telling her their plan to kill her. So why, she wondered, was she more frightened now? Who was the horrid hooded figure to strike fear in her so? What could be worse than being viciously murdered? 

“I will pay you a great deal of money to release me,” she thought to try. 

The man in black glanced back at her. “Rich, are you?” 

“I will be,” she told him. “Whatever you want for ransom, I promise I’ll get it for you if you’ll let me go.” His bitter laugh sent chills down her spine. “I was not speaking in jest.” 

He laughed again, dark and scornful. “You promise? _You?_ I should release you on _your_ promise? What's that worth? The vow of a woman? That’s very funny, Highness. Spoken in jest or not.” 

They proceeded along the mountain path to an open space. He stopped and looked up. A million stars fought for prominence and for a moment he seemed to be intent on nothing more than studying them all, as Dany watched his eyes flick from constellation to constellation behind his mask. Then, with no warning, he spun off the path, heading into wild terrain, pulling her behind him. She stumbled; he pulled her to her feet; again she fell; again he righted her. 

“I cannot move this quickly!” she gasped.

“You can! And you will!” he demanded, “Or you will suffer. Do you think I could make you suffer, Princess?” Dany nodded. “Then run!” he cried and broke into a run himself, flying across rocks in the moonlight, pulling her behind him. 

She did her best to keep up, too frightened as to what he would do to her if she did not, and she dared not fall again. After five minutes, he stopped dead. “Catch your breath,” he commanded.

Dany nodded, gasped in air, tried to quiet her heart. But then they were off again, with no warning, dashing across the mountainous terrain, heading… 

“Where— do you take me?” she gasped, when he again gave her a chance to rest. 

“Surely you don't expect me to give you an answer.” 

“It doesn't matter if you tell or not. He’ll find you.” 

His fists clenched and unclenched, then clenched again. _“He,_ Highness?” 

“Prince Joffrey. There is no greater hunter,” she warned. “He can track a falcon on a cloudy day; he can find you.” 

“You have such confidence your dearest love will save you, do you?” 

She scowled at him. “I never said he was my dearest love,” she spit, “but he will save me; that I know.” 

His bitter laugh sounded again. “You admit you don't love your betrothed? Fancy that. An honest woman. You’re a rare specimen, Highness.” 

“The Prince knows I do not love him.” 

“Are not capable of love you mean,” he seethed. 

“I’m very capable of love,” she argued. 

The muscles in his jaw jumped. She may have heard his teeth grit. “Hold your tongue, I think.” 

She would not. “I have loved more deeply than a killer like you can possibly imagine.” 

He raised his hand to slap her, stopping within a breath of her cheek, both actions happening so quickly she did not have time to blink until it was over. “That is the penalty for lying, Highness,” he warned her through his gritted teeth. “Where I come from, when a woman lies, she is punished.” 

“I spoke nothing but the truth,” she swore vehemently. 

When his hand raised a second time, a muscle in his jaw jumping again, she flinched and decided she best fall silent. 

He grabbed her arm in a punishing grip and they began to run once more. They did not speak for hours. They just ran, but, as if he could guess when she was spent, he would stop and release her. She would try to catch her breath for the next dash she was sure would come. It always did. Without a sound, he would grab her again and off they would go.

“You can never escape him,” Dany said when next they stopped. “If you release me, I promise you will come to no harm.” 

“You’re much too generous; I could never accept such an offer.” 

“I offered you your life, that was generous enough.” 

“Highness!” he barked, and his hand was suddenly gripped in her hair. “If there is talk of life to be done, let me do it.” 

All the fear that had kept her silent, had kept her in line, vanished. “You would not kill me,” she challenged quietly, refusing to bow to his hatred. “You did not steal me from murderers to murder me yourself.” 

“Wise as well as loving,” he sneered. He released her hair and jerked her to her feet, and they ran again, that time along the edge of the great ravine. It was hundreds of feet deep, and filled with rocks and trees and lifting shadows. Abruptly, he stopped. “I wonder,” he pondered, “will he stay in one group or will he divide, some to search the coastline, some to follow your path on land? What do you think?” 

“I only know he will find me. And if you have not given me my freedom first, he will _not_ treat you gently.” 

“Surely he must have discussed things with you? The thrill of the hunt. What has he done in the past?”

“We do not discuss hunting.” 

“Not hunting, not love. What do you talk about?” 

“We do not see all that much of each other,” she admitted. 

“How tender.” 

Dany could feel the upset coming. Never would she have thought to defend her coming marriage to the Prince, but she couldn't seem to stop herself, though there wasn't much to defend.

“We’re always very honest with each other,” she finally landed on after a lengthy thought. “Not everyone can say as much.” 

The man in black drew close, grabbed her arm, his breath brushing her cheek, eyes nothing but blackness behind his mask. She felt their venomous stare all the same. “May I please tell you something, Highness?” he asked, only ice in his words. “You are very cold—” 

“I am not—” 

“—very cold and very young, and if you live, I think you shall turn to hoarfrost.” 

Fire lit in her belly and she jerked her arm free of his grasp. “Why do you pick at me? I have come to terms with my life, and that is my affair! I am _not_ cold. But I have decided certain things… It is best for me to ignore emotion; I have not been happy dealing with—” Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high. “I loved once,” she whispered after a moment. “It worked out horribly.”

He tisked. “Such a poor girl.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, hate boiling in her blood and she saw him. Truly saw him. “I know who you are,” she seethed. “Your cruelty tells me everything. Admit it, you're the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

He bowed, a cheeky grin upon his mouth. “At your service, Your Highness. What can I do for you?”

“You can die,” she hissed, “cut into a thousand pieces.”

If only she had a weapon she would do just that. 

She eyed his sword and knife as he tisked at her again, arms crossed over his chest. “Such venom for one so beautiful. Why release it on me? I just saved you from murderous criminals.”

Her heart cracking open she met his flippant gaze. “You killed my love.”

He gave a shrug. “Maybe. I’ve killed more than a few in my day. Who’s this _love_ you speak of so passionately of?” he asked as he walked over to a downed log and lowered himself to the ground to rest as well. “Another prince? Rich and pompous and disgusting?”

“No!” she shouted, “He was a stable boy. Poor. Poor and perfect. With eyes like the sea after a storm,” she whispered, the cracks in her heart splitting wide all over again as she thought of her sweet Jon. The moonlight making his pale skin glow as he told her goodbye, the love in his arms as he led her, the softness of his lips against hers. She glared at the pirate, hating his pale skin and full mouth for reminding her so much of the one she loved. “You attacked his ship and you never take prisoners.”

He threw his hands out. “If I let one live, then they all want to live. Then word spreads that the Dread Pirate is no longer so dreaded. I’d have to become the Kindly Pirate Roberts. How would anyone respect me then? It’d be nothing but work, work, work.”

“You mock my pain!” 

His hands came together behind his head, his full mouth smirking but a moment before all humor left it. “Life is pain, Highness,” he snapped and seethed, “anyone who says differently is selling something.”

She felt his words like a lash against tender skin, knew only true pain could have conjured them and the bite they held. So he had suffered. It did not soften her heart toward him. Nothing ever would. She would hate him with the power of a thousand burning suns until her dying breath. She turned away as he rose to his feet. 

“I think I remember this _love_ of yours,” he said without a care. “Will it hurt too much to hear of him?” 

“Nothing you could say could hurt me more than you already have by taking him from me,” she told him stoically. Her walls were rising, the old familiar pain making her numb again.

“It should please you to know he died with honor. No begging or blubbering. He didn't even piss his pants. He was no coward. He simply said, ‘ _Please._ _Please, I must live.’”_ He turned and looked at her. “I asked him why and do you know what he said?”

She did not answer him. Would not even look at him. 

_“‘True love,’”_ he said, the words spoke with unkindness and cruelty. She met his black eyes then as her own wavered with tears. “He told me about a girl so beautiful no other could ever compare. Hair of moonlight, eyes blue as the sea. And her heart he claimed was faithful and true.” He was in front of her then, his face a breath from hers. “You should thank me for killing him before he found out who you really are.”

“And _who_ am I?” she spit, her heart dashed to dust to hear of her love’s pleas.

“An unfaithful selfish girl,” he hissed back. “Did you even wait a week before running to your prince? Gather a little respect for the dead?” He was so angry and she knew not why. It was as if he had cared for Jon as much as she and believed she'd betrayed him. 

But that simply wasn't possible.

“You mocked me once. Never do it again!” she shouted. “I _died_ that day.”

And she felt as if she were dying all over again.

Hoofbeats sounded on the ridge above them. Joffrey and his men were closing in. As the man in black stared up at them, Dany made her choice. She stood and gathered all her pain and all her grief and all her hate. “You can die too for all I care.” She shoved him hard and down he went. 

Words followed him. Whispered from far, weak and warm and familiar. “As . . . you . . . wish . . .” 

Heart in her throat she turned back to the source of the words and stared down as the man in black struggled to remove his mask and she finally, through the moonlight, saw the face beneath. “Oh, my sweet Jon,” she gasped. “What have I done to you now?” 

From the bottom of the ravine, there came only silence. Dany hesitated not a moment. Down she went after him, keeping her feet as best she could, and as she began, she thought she heard him crying out to her over and over, but she could not make sense of his words, because inside her now there was the thunder of walls crumbling, and that was noise enough. Besides, her balance was quickly gone and the ravine had her. She fell fast and she fell hard, but what did that matter, since she would have gladly dropped a thousand feet onto a bed of nails if Jon had been waiting at the bottom. 

Down, down. Tossed and spinning, crashing, torn, out of control, she rolled and twisted and plunged, cartwheeling toward what was left of her beloved. . . . 

She landed with a gasping groan not far from Jon's prone figure splayed out and still, but soon enough he was dragging himself to her, groaning too as he gathered her up in his arms.

He wept. Great heaving sobs. And neither did her eyes remain dry, nor her breath calm as they clung to each other for an age, a dozen or so _my loves_ and _my sweets_ whispered and gasped out before any real conversation was had. 

Jon finally pulled away, his hands shaking and reverent on her face, within her moonlit hair, stormy eyes wide and worried and tear filled. He was the most beautiful sight Dany had ever seen. “Can you move at all?” he whispered.

“ _Move?_ ” she asked incredulously. “Jon, you're alive. If you want I could fly.”

The tears came again, a flood of them and he held her close, guilt and relief and all feelings in-between a storm within him. Looking down on her once more he brushed her hair back from her wet face. “I told you I’d come back for you. Why didn't you wait for me?”

While his anger had vanished, the hurt was still there, though fading like a bruise.

A wrinkle gathered up her brow, blue eyes pitifully red-rimmed and baffled. “You were dead,” she whispered, “I never would have otherwise, I swear it.”

He shook his head at her, a small smile tugging at his lips. _Silly girl._ “Death cannot stop true love. Only delay it for a while.”

“I promise I’ll never doubt again.”

“There will never be a need.”

He kissed her then, a kiss to make up for all the days and nights he’d been away. And she kissed him back, pouring out all the love she hadn't been able to give him over the years and no other kiss had ever been so sweet. Nor so pure.

  
  



	5. The Descent to Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love returns only for life to deal it another unfair hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went book heavy on this chapter, and I also came to realize what a damsel in distress Buttercup was. I will always love Buttercup, but really, that poor girl is a bit dumb, lol. So I made a few changes, because our Dany is no damsel and she's no dummy either.

  
  


Jon wanted to stay there and kiss her for an age, but they couldn't, not if they wanted to stay ahead of the Prince and his men. But a few minutes more wouldn't matter all that much, surely.

He kissed her sweet lips once more and pulled away, his eyes taking her in, his hands. He could not get enough. “When I left,” he whispered, “you were already more beautiful than anything I dared to dream. How are you even more so now?” 

She shook her head, tears pooling in the blue depths of her eyes. “Please don't speak of it. I spent months after you left taking care of myself so you’d be pleased with me when you returned. Perhaps if I hadn't Joffrey never would've looked at me twice and we wouldn't be in this mess.”

Pulling her close again, he held her tight, a kiss pressed to her hair. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I never meant to leave you so long. I swear.”

Dany clutched to him, his shirt fisted in her hands. “I know. I know you didn't. And I never meant to become another's bride. Can you ever forgive me?” she whispered.

He leaned away and cupped her cheek as he shook his head. “There's nothing to forgive. It wasn't your fault.” He placed a kiss on her forehead. “We're together now, where we’ll stay. Nothing else matters.”

“Together. Forever.”

“Aye.” 

He made it slowly to his feet with a smothered groan. The ravine fall had shaken and battered him, but from what he could tell all of his bones survived the trip somehow intact. He helped her up, assured himself she wasn't damaged and hadn't known it before and took her hand and off they went again, running for their freedom.

Within a quarter hour, they were arguing like an old married couple. 

It began quite innocently as most arguments do.

“Jon?” 

“Yes, love?”

“When I started down after you, I heard you saying something but I couldn't understand it.” 

“As you wish.”

“No silly, of course I heard that. I meant what you said after.”

Jon’s heart sped up its already quick beat. “I’m afraid I was a little busy falling and trying not to die. I don't have any idea what I said,” he rushed out. 

He didn't have to look back to know she rolled her eyes at him. Her delicate snort told him that. “You always were a terrible liar, Jon Snow.” 

He blushed and smiled and slowed them enough to steal a kiss from her cheek before running on. “It doesn't matter. Let's leave the past in the past, alright?” 

Dany slowed her steps and tugged against his hold. “No. Too much of who we are is in the past. We must not begin with secrets from each other.” She meant it. He could tell that. 

“Trust me,” he tried, hopeful. 

“I do. So tell me what you said and I shall be given reason not to.” 

He stopped and sighed, heavily, and rubbed at his eyes. With a quick look around for any immediate danger first, he turned to her. “What I was trying to say— what I was actually shouting with everything I had left, was: ‘Whatever you do, stay up there! Don’t come down here! Please!’” 

She looked aghast. “You didn’t want to see me?” 

It was his turn to roll his eyes. “Of course, I wanted to see you. I just didn’t want to see you down here.” 

“Why ever not?” 

He threw a hand up at the steep wall of the ravine. “Because, my dearest Dany, we’re more or less trapped now. I can’t climb out of here and bring you with me without it taking all night. I could get myself out maybe, but it would still take hours we don't have. With the addition of your lovely bulk, they’ll no doubt be waiting on us when we reached the top.” 

Dany was scowling now, and shaking her head. “What nonsense are you spewing? You climbed the Cliffs of Insanity, and this isn’t nearly that steep.” 

Jon’s eyes went wide as he nodded his head. “I did,” he agreed jovially. Then his pretty face took on a dark scowl. “It wore me out too, let me tell you. And after that, I fought a girl who knew more than a little something about swords. And after that, I spent a few happy moments grappling with a brute twice my size. And after that, I had to outwit a man to death when any mistake I made meant a knife in _your_ throat. And after that, I ran my lungs out for a couple of hours. And after that, I was pushed two hundred feet down a rock ravine.” He was spitting mad now, teeth clenched and eyes flashing. “I’m tired, Dany. Do you understand tired? I’ve put in a day and a night, is what I’m trying to get through to you.” 

She yanked her hand free of his. “I am not stupid, Jon Snow.” 

“I never believed you were.” 

“You could’ve fooled me.” She walked away from him, fists balled at her sides. “The Princess is displeased with you and is thinking seriously of going home.” 

If she hadn’t known better she would’ve sworn a wolf was snarling behind her. “ _The Princess_ is free to leave anytime she likes.”

Before the words had even finished leaving her mouth she'd regretted them. She doubly did then. She whirled around, her heart in her throat. “Jon, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t, I swear. It's been an eventful few days, I’m not myself.”

He was in front of her a breath later and she was wrapped in his arms after another. “I know, love. Neither am I. But I love you still.” 

“And I love you.”

He kissed her again, thoroughly; her knees going weak and stomach fluttering. Even more so as he pulled away and she saw his stormy eyes dark with need. 

“We have to keep going,” he whispered.

She took his hand again and gave a nod. Their spat out of the way, they started running as fast as they could along the flat-rock floor of the ravine.

Jon figured out considerably ahead of Dany that they were headed straight into the Fire Swamp. Whether it was the touch of sulphur riding the breeze or the few flicks of yellow flame far ahead in the darkness, he could not say for sure. But once he realized what they were getting into, he began as casually as possible to find a way to avoid it. 

Another quick glance up the sheer ravine sides completely solidified any possibility of getting out in any timely manner. He dropped to the ground, as he had been doing every few minutes, to test the speed of their trackers. Now, he guessed them to be less than half an hour behind and gaining. 

There were only two choices; backwards, which would surely get them spotted by the Prince and his men, but there was a slight hope they could sneak past them and come out behind them at the other end of the ravine; or forward, and through the Fire Swamp.

They’d most likely die either way, but he’d much rather it be in the clutches of the swamp than in those of Prince Joffrey. 

He rose and ran with her, faster, neither of them spending breath in conversation. It was only a matter of time before she understood what they were about to be into, so he decided to beat back her panic in any way possible. “I think we can slow down a bit now,” he told her, doing just that. “They’re still well behind.” 

Dany took a deep breath of relief. Jon made a show of checking their surroundings then he gave her his best smile. “With any luck at all,” he said, “we’ll be safe in the Fire Swamp soon.” 

Dany heard him, of course. But she did not take it well… 

Not at all.

She stared ahead of them, at the Great Fire Swamp of the Neck, frozen with utter fear. The dark, dreadful place loomed before them and she knew it stretched on for miles and miles. As a child she had once spent an entire nightmared year convinced she was going to die within it. Her father had been keen on threatening to throw her in it every time she misbehaved. Now she could not move another step. The giant trees blackened the ground ahead of her. From every part came the sudden flames. Red, beady eyes glowed in the murky darkness. All of it promising certain death.

“We’ll never survive.”

“Nonsense,” Jon said. “You're only saying that because no one ever has.”

“You cannot ask it of me,” she said. 

“I must,” he replied, serious now. They had no other choice.

“I once dreamed I would die here. My dreams come true Jon.” 

“So did I. I think every child of Westeros did at some point.” Perhaps that would soothe her. He rubbed her arms as well, still smiling. “Were you eight that year? I was nine.” 

“Eight. Six. I can’t remember,” she whispered.

Jon took her hand and gently pulled. She could not move. “Must we?” He nodded. “Why?” 

“Now is not the time to ask.” He urged her to move forward again. Her feet were still stuck to the ground. Jon took her in his arms. “My love, I have a knife. I have my sword. I did not come across the world to lose you now. We can do this. Together. Remember?”

Dany was searching somewhere for a sufficiency of courage. Evidently, she found it in his eyes. “Together,” she finally agreed.

Hand in hand, they moved into the shadows of the Fire Swamp.

  
  


—

  
  


When Arya regained consciousness she was still on the Cliffs of Insanity, far below the waters of the Bite pounded. She stirred, blinked, tried to rub her eyes and couldn’t. Her arms were tied around a tree. She blinked again, banishing cobwebs from her foggy mind. She had gone on her knees to the man in black, ready for death, ready to be with her father again. Clearly, he’d had other notions.

Arya couldn’t decide if she should thank the man or curse him.

With the way her head ached she was leaning toward the latter.

She looked around as best she could, searching for anything to help free her and gasped. There, just where he’d flicked it to, was Needle, her beloved sword glittering in the moonlight like lost magic. She stretched her right leg out as far as it would go and managed to touch the hilt. Then it was simply a matter of inching it close enough to be graspable by one hand, and then it was an even simpler task to slash her bindings. She was dizzy when she stood, and rubbed her head behind her ear where the man in black had struck her. There was a lump, sizable, to be sure, but not a major problem.

No, the problem was; what to do now?

Littlefinger had strict instructions for such occasions, when a plan went wrong they were to _go back to the beginning._ Back to the beginning and wait for Littlefinger, then regroup, replan, and start again. She knew precisely where the beginning was. They had gotten the job in King's Landing itself, in the Thieves Quarter of Flea Bottom. Littlefinger had made the arrangements alone, as he always did. He had met with their employer, accepted the job and planned it, all in the Thieves Quarter of Flea Bottom. So Flea Bottom was clearly the place to go.

Only Arya hated it there. It was a place for only the worst of the worst. Thieves, of course, ruffians and rapers. It never mattered that she was an expert of her craft, so skilled with her sword no one could best her, those brutes only laughed at her and her skinny self and her skinny sword and threatened to do unspeakable things to her. 

And now… They especially would. 

She bent over at the great pain that rose up within her heart, the force of it stealing her breath. She wasn't an expert anymore, no longer the best. She'd been beaten. Bested. Bewildered.

And was suffering humiliation galore.

But she was Arya Stark, and she would not wallow. Despite the sting of losing, she had hope. The man in black was beyond compare in skill, and if her suspicions proved true, in honor as well. She would find him, beg him to teach her, and then she would learn, and after that, she would find the six-fingered man.

But first, the Hound.

She felt certain, like her, he was alive and just as likely to have been beaten by the man in black. She ran off over the mountain path to find her grumpy friend.

Sandor for his part woke with his head aching like the seven devils. With much groaning and growling he sat up and rubbed his head and then his neck. Tenderly though, for it felt as if it had been crushed instead of strangled. It was a struggle to swallow and he knew he wouldn't be speaking anytime soon. 

If he ever saw the man in black again he very well might bust his head open. _Slippery little bastard._

The Hound rose to his feet, his head giving a painful thump-thump at his temples. He looked right and left. _What now? Which way?_

He trusted the man in black spoke true when he said Arya was still alive since he’d left him alive as well, and no doubt he found the Princess too and freed her from Litterfinger’s clutches. He couldn’t be certain without chasing after them, but he had a feeling she was as safe as she could possibly be if she was with the man in black. 

Littlefinger got them into this mess, if he was still alive he could get his own self out. Sandor would go find Arya and together they would figure out what to do and where to go next. He needed to see for himself she was alright.

He took off at a slow trot, each footfall a sharp pain in his head, but thankfully he hadn't run very far at all before he heard familiar footsteps running his way. Arya popped over the hill ahead of him and they both stopped their running. A smile split her face and he rolled his eyes. She was in front of him a moment later. 

“He left you alive too,” she said.

“Aye,” he whispered and rubbed at his throat. 

“Choke you out?” she asked. He grunted. She rubbed behind her right ear. “He clubbed me in the head.” Her face twisted into a snarl of confusion. “Wonder why he didn't just kill us?”

Sandor had his thoughts but his throat hurt too much to voice them so he only shrugged.

“I guess Littlefinger ran off and left you to fight him like he did me?”

He nodded. 

“I guess we should go see if we can find him.”

He didn't agree or disagree, just followed her as she ran off back down the mountain path he’d just come from.

The sun was just beginning to set when they found Littlefinger. Both stood stone still as they looked down on him, grey and unmoving. 

“I’d say it was a pity if it was,” groused the Hound.

Arya chuffed. “I won’t miss him either, just the coin he put in our pockets. Do you think we should bury him?” she asked Sandor, wincing up at him in the setting sun.

“And what are we gonna dig with?” he whispered. “My hands?” 

She gave a shrug and turned away toward the south. “Let’s go then,” she said.

He jogged up to her side. “Where are we going?” he mouthed. 

“South I reckon. Back where we started.”

He pointed off to the right, where he was certain the man in black had ran off with his prize. “The Princess?” he hissed.

“What for?” she asked, walking off down the hill. “She's with him and we’d never catch them. Besides, he loves her. She’ll be fine.”

He shook his head and threw his hands out, hoping she understood his silence question.

“How do I know?” 

“Because, only a man in love would chase us down, climb those cliffs, fight me and you, and then commit murder all for a pretty girl.”

He couldn't argue with that so he followed her on down the hill.

  
  


—

  
  


From his vantage point aboard his ship, Prince Joffrey stared up at the Cliffs of Insanity. Tracking his would-be wife was just like any other hunt to him. It did not matter if you were after a buck or a bride. And while he’d hired the crew who kidnapped her, he insisted they not tell him their plans. He wanted to have as much fun as possible. 

Obviously, the cliffs had recently been scaled. Though they were hard to see, there were markings all the way up from sea to top. A rope was used, again, obviously; the markings were in a straight line. An arm-over-arm climb up a thousand-foot rope with occasional foot kicks for balance and lift. Such a climb required both strength and planning. His enemy was strong. His enemy was not impulsive. 

He’d need to remember that, not that he was the least bit worried.

Three hundred feet from the top things got interesting. The marks were deeper, more frequent, and they followed no direct ascending line. The rope had been abandoned for a free climb, or it had been cut, forcing the climber to cling to the cliff face. 

Either way, his enemy had talent. In spades. Not to mention nerves of steel.

Joffrey glanced at Ramsay who stood at his side. “Find us a way to the top of the Cliffs. I'm not in the mood for a climb today.”

“Who is?” his friend scoffed before walking away to do as he was bid. Several minutes later he returned. “I thought it best to send half the fleet back to the Bay of Crabs and up the Trident. The other half will go North, around the Fingers. We’ll find a suitable place to land and flush our prey into the waiting arms of your forces who should meet near the Fire Swamp.” 

The Prince grinned. Panicked, fleeing prey was most enjoyable. 

At Joffrey's nod of approval Ramsay signaled the cannoneer. It boomed along the Cliffs and within minutes, the fleet had begun to split, with only the Prince’s giant ship sailing alone closest to the coastline, looking for a place to land.

“There!” Joffrey ordered, some time later, and his ship began maneuvering into the cove to anchor. That took time, but not much, because the Captain was skilled and, more than that, the Prince was quick to lose patience and no one dared risk that. 

Once the horses were unloaded it took him considerably less than an hour to reach the edge of the Cliffs of Insanity. He dismounted, went to his knees, and commenced his study of the terrain.

A great jumble of footprints caused him pause. It was hard to ascertain what had happened. Perhaps a meeting of minds, because two sets of footprints seemed to lead off while one remained pacing the cliff edge. Then there were two on the cliff edge. 

Joffrey examined the prints and their paths until he was certain of two things: a sword fight had taken place, and the combatants were both masters of their art. 

The stride length, the quickness of the foot feints, all clearly revealed to his unfailing eye, made him reassess his second conclusion. They were at least masters. Probably better. 

“Whoever they are, they’re quite good,” Ramsay commented from behind him where he too was studying footprints.

“It pains me to say it, but they are beyond any I’ve ever seen.”

Ramsay gave a grunt.

Joffrey closed his eyes and concentrated, searching for the smell of blood. Surely, in a match of such ferocity, blood must have been spilled. The Prince had worked for many years to perfect his keen nose, ever since a wounded tigress had surprised him from a tree limb while he was tracking her. He had let his eyes follow the blood then, and it had almost killed him. Now he trusted only his olfactories. If there was blood within a hundred yards, he would find it. 

He opened his eyes and moved without hesitation toward a group of large boulders until he found the blood drops. There were few of them, and they were dry. But less than three hours old. 

Joffrey smiled and looked over his shoulder at his friend. “Three hours ahead at most.”

Ramsay’s blue eyes glittered with gladness.

When you had the whites under you, three hours was a finger snap, they would find them in no time. Time no longer an issue in his mind he retraced the sword fight, for it confused him. It seemed to range from cliff edge and back, then return to the cliff edge. And sometimes the left foot seemed to be leading, sometimes the right, for both swordsmen, which made no logical sense at all. 

Clearly they were changing hands, but why would a master do that unless his good arm was wounded to the point of uselessness, and that clearly had not happened, because a wound of that depth would have left blood pools and there was simply not enough blood in the area to indicate that. Not even close.

It was very strange. 

Joffrey continued his wanderings. Stranger still he found, the battle could not have ended in death. He knelt by a tree and found the outline of legs, kneeling. Clearly, someone had been unconscious there, tied, no doubt. Someone surprisingly small, perhaps just a boy, or a female? He scoffed at that nonsense. As if a mere boy could be a master swordsman, let alone a girl. Preposterous. The man was just stunted, probably an ailment of some sort had impeded his growth, yet obviously not his talent.

“My guess would be,” Prince Joffrey said, directing his comment toward Ramsay, “whoever fell here, ran off there,” and he pointed one way, “and whoever was the victor ran off along the mountain path in almost precisely the opposite direction. I also believe the victor was following the path taken by the Princess.” 

“Shall we follow them both?” Ramsay asked. 

“No,” Prince Joffrey replied. “Whoever is gone doesn't matter, since whoever has the Princess is the whoever we’re after. And because we don’t know the nature of the trap we might be being led into, we need all the men we have in one band. Clearly, this has been planned by the men of the Riverlands, and nothing must ever be put past the tricky fiends.” 

“You think it's a trap?” 

“Until proven otherwise, always,” he answered. “Which is why I’m still alive.” 

And with that, he was back aboard a white and galloping, Ramsay and their hundred men following. When he reached the mountain path where the hand fight happened, the Prince didn't even bother dismounting. Everything that could be seen was quite visible from horseback. 

“Our master swordsman has beaten a giant,” he said, when Ramsay was close enough. “Do you see?” 

Ramsay, of course, saw nothing much but rock and moss and the mountain path, and perhaps if he squinted a depression that could be body shaped. But to save face he said, “Of course.” 

“And look there!” cried the Prince, because now he saw, for the first time, in the rubble of the mountain path, the footsteps of a woman. “The Princess is alive!” 

And again the whites were thundering across the mountain. When Ramsay caught up with him again, the Prince was kneeling over the still body of a man. He dismounted. 

“Smell this,” he ordered, handing up a goblet. 

“Nothing,” Ramsay said. “No odor at all.” 

Their eyes met and twinkled. “Wolfsbane,” they said as one. 

“I would bet my life on it,” Joffrey added. “Nothing else kills so silently.” He stood up then. “The Princess was still alive; her footprints follow the path.” 

He stood and put on a show of anger to hide his glee. The most fun would be had when he caught his prey, but tracking them down was still invigorating, his blood dancing with excitement. But his army need not know that. “There will be great suffering if she dies!” he shouted to the men who all hollered back at him.

On foot now, he ran along the mountain path, following the footsteps that he alone could see. And when those footsteps left the path for wilder terrain, he followed still. 

Strung out behind him, Ramsay and all the soldiers did their best to keep up. Men stumbled, horses fell, even Ramsay tripped from time to time. Prince Joffrey never even broke stride. He ran steadily, mechanically, his twig legs pumping like a metronome. It was two hours before dawn when he reached the steep ravine. He studied it as he waited for Ramsay.

“Two bodies fell to the bottom,” he said to him once he stood at his side, “and they stayed there.” 

“But they did get up,” Ramsay replied. The bottom of the ravine was lit with moonlight and indeed clear of broken bodies. His eyes bore into the Prince, his heart racing, not from the chase, but from anticipation. “Whoever he is, we must keep him alive.”

Joffrey nodded. “A master swordsman, a defeater of giants, an expert in the use of Wolfsbane powder…”

“He climbed the Cliffs, came all this way on foot after all his fighting, survived that fall and now he’s got your bride in tow.”

Their ultimate prey had been found, their worthy opponent, the one they had searched and hoped for for so long. 

“I wonder if the poor bastard knows this ravine opens into the Fire Swamp?” Joffrey snickered.

“Shall we find out.”

It was a well-documented trait of both the Prince and Ramsay to only smile just before the kill; their smiles were very much in evidence as they rode to the other end of the ravine, certain their prey would be scrambling about for an escape, or grambling up the steep sides.

But there was nothing and no one.

Joffrey stared, astride his white, at the ravine below him. Something akin to respect niggled at him, but he quickly smothered it in annoyance. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath to keep his patience and contain his disappointment. 

“Gods, did they actually go in?” Ramsay asked, scoffing and stupefied. Joffrey nodded and a spike of fear actually took Ramsay. “Do we follow?”

Joffrey sneered. “They’ll either live or die. If it's the latter, I have no plans to join them. If they manage to survive, well… We’ll meet them on the other side.”

“He must be very desperate, or very frightened, very stupid, or very brave,” Ramsay commented as they took off at a soft canter. 

“All four I believe.”

  
  
  


—

  
  


Just a few feet into the swamp and Jon released her hand. Dany would have protested, but he took his sword in one and a knife in the other, and she thought better of it. Seeing him so well prepared buoyed her spirits. Surely whatever might come their way, Jon would see them through it. Look how far he’d come to find her.

And while they were in the long feared Fire Swamp, she decided after an hour or so that perhaps it wasn’t so bad as all the stories had claimed or her father had threatened. 

It was dark and gloomy and smelled horrible for certain, the foul gases gastly, burning the nose and eyes, turning the stomach, but soon enough they faded away with familiarity. The famed fires were easy enough to avoid once you knew what to listen for. A deep and muffled popping sound alerted one to their sudden bursts. 

Granted, her dress had caught fire before they had that important knowledge, but Jon was quick, the licking flames smothered in less than a dozen of her fluttering heartbeats.

“Didn’t get singed, did you?” he asked, setting her back on her feet.

She shook her head as she checked his hands, thankful they were still pale and blister free. “Right as rain, thanks to you,” she said with a kiss to his pleased smile.

“Good, shall we?” he asked, his arm held out, still smiling as if they were going on a picnic. With him by her side how could she ever be afraid. She took his offered arm and they continued on their way. “This place might keep us on our toes for a bit, but soon enough it’ll just be a bad dream. My ship’s waiting for us on the other side and we can sail away.”

“I cannot wait to see it. I love ships, they're so beautiful. What’s the name of yours?”

“The _Revenge._ Sole property of the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

“The man who killed you?” Dany asked. “The one who broke my heart into a thousand pieces?”

He lept over a fallen tree. “That's the one.”

“You speak as if you're friends.”

Jon chuckled much to her surprise as he took her around the waist and lifted her off the fallen tree and to the muddy moss covered ground below it. “I should hope so. It would be rather bad if I didn't even like myself.”

“What?” 

He smiled at her confusion and tugged her hand to keep her moving. “I didn't lie before, when you asked who I was. _I am_ the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

She shook her head, pretty mouth open in shock. He kissed it because he could not help himself. “How is that possible?” she asked. “He’s been marauding longer than I’ve been alive and you only left me three years ago.”

“I myself am often surprised at life’s little quirks,” he admitted just as more muffled popping sounded. He stuck his sword in the ground and deftly lifted her up and around to miss the shot of flame that erupted. “I also spoke true when I told you I said please.”

Dany watched her steps as she listened. Jon for his part kept chopping through the thick vines, clearing the path for them as he told his story. 

“It intrigued Roberts I suppose and he asked me why. Of course I told him I had left to find my way, to make enough money to come back to you, the most beautiful woman in the world.” He turned back and looked at her with a smile. 

She blushed and nudged him on. 

“It didn't take me long to convince him of your beauty, and finally Roberts decided something. ‘Alright Jon,’ he said, ‘never had a valet before, you can try it if you like. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.’” Jon wacked another vine clean through with his sword. “For three years he said that. ‘Goodnight Jon. Good work, sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.’”

They found themselves at a small ravine, Jon helped her down, holding her hand so she wouldn't fall. 

“You know what an industrious fellow I am.”

“Stubborn you mean,” she said with a soft snicker.

He cut his eyes at her, but grinned. “That too. But my stubbornness kept me learning and pushing myself to work twenty hours a day.” Dany nodded and kissed his shoulder to show her pride in him. She received a kiss to her hair in return. “So, with my stubbornness I decided to learn all I could about piracy in the time I had left. Thought it would at least keep my mind off my coming slaughter. For the next several days I managed to stay out of his sight and learned all I could about his ship and crew and their jobs. By the time he remembered I was there I had cleaned the hold completely. Made it much more organized. I also worked with his cook. The poor bastard didn't know the difference between table salt and cayenne pepper. Roberts was so impressed he told me to find something else to fix.”

“Well done,” she praised.

“Thank you,” he replied. “Before I knew it, over a year had passed. I learned to swordfight, handfight, throw a knife, not to mention sail. And Roberts and I had become friends. Then it happened…” he trailed off. 

A rather large tree had formed a bridge over a particularly swampy section of the swamp and Jon scooped her up bridal style. 

“What happened?” she asked as she looped her arms around his neck. 

He began to carefully walk them across the downed tree. “He ordered me to his cabin and I slunk in like a whipped dog. I’d had a bad day, failed terribly at my first lone attempt at piracy. His suggestion, not mine. I had yelled my name to the crew of a fat Essoi beauty loaded for King’s Landing and they laughed at me before firing every cannon they had at us. Roberts came to our rescue of course, but afterwards in his cabin, he told me a secret. I shouldn't have been surprised. He was a pudgy little man, not at all fierce as one would expect a dread pirate to be. He sat me down and said, ‘Buck up, my boy. No one was ever going to fear the Dread Pirate Jon, just as they wouldn’t the Dread Pirate Ryan.’”

“Who?”

“Exactly,” Jon said. He jumped down from the felled tree and stood still, grinning at her. “‘I am not the Dread Pirate Roberts,’ he told me. His name was Ryan. He inherited the ship from the previous Dread Pirate Roberts just as I inherited it from him. The man he inherited it from wasn't the real Dread Pirate Roberts either, his name was Cummberbund. The real Dread Pirate Roberts has been retired fifteen years and been living like a king in Valyria.”

“How remarkable.”

“Aye, it was,” he agreed. “Especially when he sailed us into port, took on a whole new crew and called me Roberts. He stayed with me as First Mate for a time. Once the crew believed, he left and I’ve been Roberts ever since.”

Dany smiled, so proud of all he’d become despite being dead for three long years. 

He stopped and took her into his arms, his own smile bright. “Now that we're together, I’ll give it over to someone else and we can find an island to live out our days together on. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful,” she exclaimed. “I shall be the Pirate's Bride. Much better than who I was before.”

“Much.”

After another kiss he took up his weapons and they were off again, picking their way through the thick muck and tangle of vines. Jon cut a very long piece of one and coiled it over his shoulder, trimming thorns off here and there as they continued on. “Once I’ve got it ready,” he said, moving steadily on beneath the giant trees, “we’ll attach ourselves to each other so no matter what darkness comes while we're in here we’ll be together. It's more a precaution than a necessity because to tell the truth I’m almost disappointed. This place is bad, but it’s not that bad, is it?”

Dany wanted to agree, and she would have too, but the lightning sand had her. Jon turned only in time to see her disappear in a woosh of white powder. 

She had simply let her attention wander for a moment. The ground seemed solid enough and she had no idea what lightning sand looked like anyway but once her foot began to sink, she couldn't pull back and even before she could scream she was gone. 

It was like falling through a cloud. The sand was the finest in the world and there was no bulk to it whatsoever and at first no unpleasantness. She was just falling gently through the soft powdery mass. Falling farther and farther from anything resembling life, but she could not allow herself to panic. Jon had instructed her on what to do if it happened and she followed his words to the letter. She spread her arms and she spread her fingers and forced herself to resemble a dead man floating on the sea. All because Jon had told her the more she could spread herself the slower she would sink. And the slower she sank the quicker he could dive down after her and catch her. 

Dany’s ears were now caked with sand, and her nose was filled with sand, and she knew if she opened her eyes one million tiny fine bits of lightning sand would seep behind her eyelids, and now she was beginning to panic, badly. 

_How long had she been falling?_ Hours it seemed. Sharp pains splintered through her chest from holding her breath so long. She desperately wanted to draw in a great gulp of air.

But Jon's words came back to her. _“You must hold your breath until I find you. Go into a dead man’s float and close your eyes and hold your breath and I’ll come get you and we’ll both have a wonderful story for our grandchildren.”_

She continued to sink. The weight of the sand crushing her shoulders and neck. The small of her back aching. It was agony keeping her arms outstretched and her fingers spread when it was all so useless. The lightning sand just grew heavier and heavier atop her and she was sinking deeper and deeper. 

She wondered if it was bottomless as they had thought when they were children. Did you just sink forever until the sand ate away at you until you were nothing but bones and your poor skeleton would continue the trip down forever? No, surely there had to be a resting place. _A resting place. What a wonderful thing._ _I’m so tired, so tired, and I want to rest,_ and, _“Jon, come save me!”_ she screamed. Or started to. Because in order to scream you had to open your mouth, so all she really got out was the first sound of the first word: _“Juh.”_ After that the sand was down her throat and she was done.

Jon had made a terrific start. Before she had even entirely disappeared, he had dropped his sword and long knife and had gotten the vine coil off his shoulder. It took him next to no time to knot one end around a giant tree, and holding tight to the free end he simply dove headlong into the lightning sand, kicking his feet as he sank, for further speed. There was no question in his mind of failure. He knew he would find her. Yes, she would be upset and possibly even in hysterics. But alive. And that's all that mattered. 

The lightning sand had his ears and nose blocked, and he hoped she hadn't panicked, that she'd remembered to spread eagle her body so that he could catch up to her quickly. If she remembered, it wouldn’t be that hard, the same really as rescuing a drowning swimmer in murky water.

He’s done that a time or two. They floated slowly down, and he dove straight as an arrow, kicked with his feet and pulled with his arms. It was easy enough to gain on them. Then you grabbed them and brought them to the surface. Simple as that. The only real problem would be convincing your grandchildren that such a thing had actually happened and it was not just another family fable.

Jon was still thinking of the infants yet unborn when something happened he hadn't counted on: the vine wasn't long enough. He hung suspended for a dreadful moment holding to the end of it as it stretched up through the sand to the security of the giant tree. To release it would truly be madness. There was no possibility of getting all the way back up to the surface without it. A few feet maybe if he kicked wildly, but no more. If he let go and didn't find her within a finger snap, it was all up for both of them. 

He let go of the vine without a qualm. He had come too far to fail over a little sand. Failure was not an issue to even be considered. Down he sank and within a finger snap he had his hand around her wrist. But then he screamed in horror and surprise, and the sand gouged at his throat. He hadn't grabbed her wrist, but a skeleton one, bone only, no flesh left at all. That happened in lightning sand. Once the skeleton was picked clean, it would begin, often, to float, like seaweed in a quiet tide, shifting this way and that, sometimes surfacing, more often journeying through the sand for eternity.

Jon threw the bony wrist away and reached out blindly with both hands, scrambling wildly to touch some part of her, and he found her. Her foot, more precisely, and he pulled it to him and then his arm was around her perfect waist and he began to kick, kick with any and all strength he had left, needing to rise the few yards to the end of the vine. The idea that it might be difficult to find a single vine in a small sea of sand never occurred to him. Failure wasn't an option. He would simply kick, and when he had kicked hard enough he would rise and when he had risen high enough he would reach out to the vine and when he had reached out far enough it would be there and when it was there he would tie her to it and with his last breath he would pull them both to life.

Thanks to his stubbornness that’s exactly what happened.

She remained unconscious for a terrifyingly long time. Jon busied himself as best he could, catching his own breath as he cleaned the sand from her ears and nose and mouth, and most delicate of all, from beneath the lids of her beautiful blue eyes. The length of her quietness disturbed him, and would have much more so if her precious heart had not been slowly beating beneath her perfect breasts. It was almost as if she knew she had died and was afraid to find out for a fact it was true. He held her in his arms, rocked her slowly. Whispered to her, gave her his breath over and over again, his lips sealed to hers. Eventually, finally, thank all the gods, she blinked.

For a time she looked around without a word, then gave a few horrible coughs, lightning sand flying from her throat. “We're alive?” she managed between great gasps. 

He kissed her sand covered cheeks. “We're hard to kill.”

“I tried to do what you said,” she cried out, the panic taking her before he could soothe it into staying asleep. “I put my arms out, my legs, my fingers! But I just kept falling!”

Jon took her sweet face in his hands. “You did so well, my love. I found you and we're fine. We're both fine,” he told her softly and with care, though her fear was still clear on her face and stirring up his own within his chest. _Gods, he’d nearly lost her!_ He pulled her to him and clutched her tight, to know she was alive and for her to know the same of him. 

She shuddered for a time as if she fully intended to fly apart and he wondered if he might just fly off with her, but soon their hearts slowed, beating together, and the worst was over. Just a few minutes more and they had gathered themselves to only a couple quiet sobs. Those done they became Jon and Dany once more. 

When he thought their legs would hold them again he got them to their feet. They may have survived the lightning sand, but the swamp still held dangerous things he did not care to sit around and be bait for. 

“I know you're tired, love, but we still have a long way to go.”

“Why?”

“Dany, you know why.”

“I don't. Tell me why we have to go through and can't go back.”

It was just her fear and exhaustion talking, both of which he certainly felt himself, but they could not give into them. He stepped forward and took her face in his hands. “If we go back, he’ll be waiting for us. If we go through, we’ll make it to my ship. Then we can sail away and live our lives as we’ve always wanted. Don't you want that?”

Dany only thought on it a moment. “I do, more than anything.” 

Jon pretended to clear his throat as he gave a strained smile. He had spotted the first R.O.U.S., the horrid beast slowly ambling up behind his love. “I thought so, let's go!” he said with much excitement.

She took his hand and kissed his palm then laced their fingers together. And onward they went, Jon noting a second R.O.U.S peering around a tree to their left.

“Look at it this way,” he said, wanting to encourage her further and maybe even distract himself from the beasts tracking them. “A little over three years ago, you were just a maid and I was a poor stable boy. Now you're almost a queen and I rule uncontested on the seas. Surely such people as us were never meant to die in a silly ole swamp.”

“You're so certain?”

“Of course, I am. We’ve already conquered two of the Fire Swamp’s terrors. The flame spurts make a popping sound so there's no trouble avoiding them. And you were clever enough to find the lightning sand, so we can avoid that easily enough as well.”

Dany tugged hard on his hand, her feet planted well enough Jon stumbled back into her. “But Jon, what about the R.O.U.S’s?”

He scoffed. “Rodents of unusual size? I don't believe they exist.” 

But exist they did. 

Indeed, one at that very moment sprung out of a tree and knocked Jon to the ground with a brutal hit. Dany screamed as his sword went flying and he began to wrestle with the horrid creature, its guttural growls chilling her to the bone. 

It bit into Jon's arm with its enormous front teeth and he roared in pain, beating the vicious thing in the head with his other fist, still scrambling around in the swamp mud to get free of it. Finally he hit it hard enough to dislodge the beast and throw it off him. He scrambled and crawled for his sword, but the R.O.U.S lept again and the blade was forgotten in favor of keeping those nasty teeth from devouring his face. 

He had no idea if Dany was already half devoured, only that if he didn’t do something desperate right then and right there she soon would be, right along with him.

But Dany wasn't half devoured, or even a little bit so. Thankfully she was still whole and in one perfect piece, if a bit panicked. Watching her beloved being attacked by the dreadful thing was shocking, and terrifying, but she would not let him die right there in front of her. She ran for his sword as he continued to fight for his life, another of the vile things staring her down, teeth bared and glistening as it growled at her, inches away from the sword’s hilt. 

Dany snatched it up anyway, despite the danger, nothing would keep her from saving Jon, not even her own death. She spun around and desperately looked for a place to stick the beast that wouldn't skewer Jon as well, but they wouldn't be still and she didn't trust her skill, non existent as it was. She'd never held a sword in her life. If they found their way out the mess they were in she’d insist he teach her. She was to be a Pirate's Bride afterall. 

Jon had seen her and his sword trembling in her shaking hands as he rolled around with the R.O.U.S. His heart would've soared with love and pride had it not been so overwhelmed with sheer stubbornness to survive. Lucky for him, or perhaps not so much, he still possessed his clear head and put all his strength into holding the creature still long enough his love could pierce its heart. 

She met his eyes in question and he gave a nod of encouragement, his strength quickly waning as the giant rat wiggled in his grasp. It had been such a long day and he’d done so much climbing and fighting and running and swimming in sand. His grip failed just before Dany struck and razor sharp teeth buried themselves into his shoulder. He screamed, Dany drove the sword deep, the creature cried. But still it hung on, gnawing at his flesh and bones. Again Dany stabbed it, and again, and finally it released him, dying with a pitiful moan.

With one last surge of strength, Jon flung the beast off him and collapsed in exhaustion. His sword gave a twang as it dropped to the ground and Dany was at his side, hands hovering over his wounds, tears sliding down her cheeks. 

“Oh my Jon, look what it's done to you,” she cried. 

He took one of her hands in his and brought it to his lips, giving her knuckles a kiss of gratefulness. “But what would it have done had my love not saved me?”

She shook her head, the tears still falling. “Not well enough.”

It would not do to have her so upset. He forced himself upright and took her in his arms, ignoring the pain in them as he kissed her sweet lips. “I'm alright, better than.”

“Are you sure? It must hurt terribly.”

He stood with some effort and held his hand out to her. “I'm in something close to agony, but we’ll worry with it later. We need to hurry before more of those things show up. I think we're almost out of here anyway and I for one am ready to take us to my cabin and sleep for awhile.”

“How about an age?” she asked with a smile. 

“Perfect.”

  
  


—

  
  


They did indeed find their way out. In the last quarter hour of the six it had taken. No more R.O.U.S’s, no more lightning sand, and no more flames. Just alive and very much hand and hand. 

But just as they turned to kiss each other in relief and gratefulness a horse nickered shrill and shocking, dozens of hoofbeats sounding, a company of men riding into the forest clearing.

Prince Joffrey sat atop his white, smirking like the twiggy little bastard he was. “Surrender,” he demanded.

Jon, stubborn as ever, refused to admit defeat and held his sword at the ready while urging Dany to safety behind him. He put a hand to his chest and gave the Prince a look of pleased surprise. “You mean you want to surrender to me? Very well, I accept.”

Joffrey rolled his eyes. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that. Don't ruin it by being a fool.”

“But am I a fool? We can turn around and go right back into the Fire Swamp. We could live there quite happily now that we know its secrets. You'd be welcome to follow us, in fact I hope you do."

“I said surrender!” Joffrey fumed. 

“It will not happen,” Jon insisted.

“Surrender!!”

“Death! First!”

While her grooms fought, Dany's eyes had been darting around the clearing, taking in all the soldiers coming out from their hiding places, crossbows aimed at her love, and she knew she had to do something or else watch Jon die in front of her. She saved him once. She would again. 

“Do you promise not to hurt him?” she called out to Joffrey. 

“What was that?” he asked, clearly not expecting such a question.

Jon asked the same, his beautiful stormy eyes wide with confusion and fear. 

She had to ignore it. She turned back to Joffrey. “This man did not kidnap me. He saved me from kidnappers, murderers actually, and he saved me many times after in the Fire Swamp. I will come back with you willingly, but only you must promise not to hurt him.”

Jon’s eyes bored into her back as sharp as any blade and she felt his pain cutting as deep as her own, but she had no choice. As long as he was alive… 

“May I live a thousand years and never hunt again,” Joffrey declared.

“He is a sailor on the ship _Revenge._ Swear to me he will be returned to his ship,” she demanded. 

“But of course, my dove. Wherever he wants.”

“I said swear it,” she repeated, voice hard.

Joffrey swallowed and gave a tight smile. “I swear it.”

As his bride turned to her kidnapper Ramsay snickered softly at Joffrey’s side. “I almost believed you.”

An evil grin took his face. “Oh, I spoke true, my friend. I will not hurt him. But you will. And I will enjoy every moment of it,” the Prince declared.

“Clever boy.”

They watched the Princess whisper her goodbyes to the man in black, her love for him more than obvious. Joffrey's expression turned lethal at the vision they made together. “Take him to the Pit of Despair once I get my wayward bride out of sight.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Ramsay replied.

Dany's heart broke to see the hurt and anger that stared back at her from Jon’s eyes. She clutched herself to him. He did not return the embrace. “Hear me, for I speak only truth. I love you and you alone. You died once and it was nearly my end,” she whispered in his ear. “I could not bear it if you died again, not when I could save you. That is what I do now and ask that you return the favor once more. Live today, and return to save me from him. Please, my love.”

Hoofbeats sounded, drawing closer by the second and finally Jon’s arms held her close, his lips pressed to her cheek. “I swear it.”

She was snatched from his arms by Joffrey and away they rode, Jon watching them go, the want to fall to his knees in despair almost too great to resist.

“Come sir, we must get you to your ship,” a smooth voice murmured to him. 

The Prince’s lackey no doubt. The blank stare in his cold blue eyes reminded Jon very much of a shark’s as it came in to dismember its prey. A man such as that would never return him to his ship. 

He walked over and stood by his horse, looking up at him. “We are men of action, lies do not become us.”

The man grinned. “Well spoken, sir.” 

With a nod of his head, one of the soldiers behind Jon took his sword and another tied his hands behind his back. He ignored the pain from his wounds focusing instead on the man he knew would be his next foe to best and noticed something peculiar about him. 

“What is it?” the man asked, noticing Jon’s curiosity.

Jon smiled. “You’ve got six fingers on your right hand. I know someone who’s been looking for you.”

The man’s eyes glinted with sudden rage and Jon was clubbed on the head into insensitivity, falling like a beaten stone. His last conscious thought was of Dany and her whispered plea. 

  
  


—

  
  


He woke to the wet rasp of a tongue bathing his face. A great white beast with eyes as red as garnets stood beside him, its maw pushed through the thick iron bars of a cage.

_A direwolf?_

He’d never seen one, only heard tales of them, but it couldn’t have been anything else. Why it wasn’t eating his face instead of cleaning it was most curious. He’d think on it later though. 

He sat up, slowly, and chains rattled. His ankles were both clasped in irons, as well as his wrists, the chains leading to an anchor as thick as his forearm bolted to the floor. It wasn't just the wolf who resided in a cage, but himself too. In one much larger than was necessary for a man in his opinion, but a cage was a cage. His body ached something fierce from its recent exertions, especially his shoulder and arm, both beginning to fester from the gnawing the R.O.U.S had done, but he ignored them in favor of taking in more of his surroundings. 

The wolf sat and stared at him, silent as death as he did so. 

He was underground, he was certain. It wasn't the lack of windows, or the flickering torches that led him to that knowledge. More the dankness, and the echoes of many calls coming from above him. Animal, not human as one would have expected from what appeared to be very much a dungeon.

Jon turned to his fellow prisoner. “This is a first for me. Animal prison. I know what I did, but what was your offense?” He lifted his hand to the beast’s muzzle where it was sniffed and slobbered on it. “Did you bite him? I should've bit him.”

Shortly after his return to consciousness the Eunuch appeared, not that Jon knew he was a eunuch. To him he was just a man, bald and round and dressed in robes, his expression blank as he stopped and studied Jon and the direwolf, both still showing the other affection with licks and scratches. 

“They said you were special. I suppose I should’ve believed them.”

A key was produced from under his robes and he entered Jon’s cage. He held a tray which carried many things—bandages and food, healing powders and a spirit of some sort. Ale, Jon hoped as his visitor kneeled at his side and sat the tray down.

The direwolf bared his teeth, his tongue flicking out over them, glowing red eyes narrowed on the Eunuch. 

“He doesn't seem to like you,” Jon offered. 

“Which is why he's down here. He doesn't like anyone.”

“I beg to differ,” he argued, reaching through the bars and petting the white wolf again. The Eunuch rolled his eyes. “Where are we?” Jon asked.

“I shouldn’t tell you but you won’t be leaving, and no one will be visiting you either, so I don’t suppose it matters. We are inside the Red Keep. In the Pit of Despair to be exact.”

Jon couldn't contain his snort of derision. “Pit of Despair. How catchy. Prince Joffrey’s brainchild I suppose?”

The Eunuch shrugged and went about tending to Jon’s wounds. He’d been stripped to the waist, so they were easy to get to. 

He ignored the sting of the medicine and ache of his wounds, looking longingly at the bowl of thick stew that rested on the tray. It smelled delicious. He hadn't eaten in what felt like weeks. But the medicine, the meal… they left Jon to wonder. _Why? Why feed him? Why heal him? Surely Joffrey meant to kill him._

“Who knows I’m here?” he asked.

“I know and they know.”

“They? The Prince and his lackey you mean?”

The Eunuch nodded. “The lackey’s name is Ramsay. _Lord_ Ramsay Bolton.”

“When I was brought in I was half conscious. The _Lord_ was giving orders to the three soldiers who were carrying me. They know.”

“Knew,” the Eunuch corrected.

_Ah, that changed things._ And not for the better. “I gather I’m to die as well?”

The Eunuch looked him straight in the eye. “Eventually.” 

Jon was not cowed. “They can try. I’ve survived death by pirates, climbed the Cliffs of Insanity, bested a great swordsman, felled a giant, outwitted a wizard, and made it through the Fire Swamp. I’ll survive whatever they have planned.”

His declaration wasn’t believed by the Eunuch at all, the man shaking his shiny bald head at him, a look of pity on his face.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I’m sorry, no. They always win their little games. Not one creature has ever left this place alive, and neither will you I’m afraid. They’ve been waiting for you for a very long time.”

Again, Jon was not bothered by the dread warning. “We’ll see. I’ve got a way of getting back up every time I’m knocked down.” 

The direwolf stuck his nose through the bars once more and licked Jon’s ear as if he’d understood his words and was giving him further encouragement. 

No more was spoken between them as the Eunuch finished tending his wounds. Once he’d finished Jon leaned back against the wall of his cage and watched the Eunuch silently leave him the bowl of stew and drink, reload his tray, then glide from sight, the cage locked firmly behind him. 

He picked up the cup and guzzled half, only gasping a little at the burn it left in his throat. Some sort of brandy he thought. Next he took up the bowl of stew and ate his fill, the direwolf watching keenly through the bars, licking his lips every so often. He probably should've used more caution filling his belly with their offerings, but he’d already worked out his captors plans, and knew, for the time being, he was safe.

If the soldiers were dead it wasn't unreasonable at all to assume he would eventually follow. And if they wanted his end, it was also not unreasonable to assume they had not the least intention of doing it immediately. Why would they tend to his wounds, why return his strength with good warm food? No, his death would be a while yet, but in the meantime considering the personalities of his captors it was most assuredly not unreasonable to assume they would do their utmost best to make him suffer.

Greatly.

Jon sat the rest of his stew down as close to the wolf as possible and closed his eyes. There was pain coming and he had to be ready for it. Had to prepare his mind. Had to get it controlled and safe from their efforts so they could not break him. He would not let them break him. He would hold together against anything and all. If they gave him sufficient time to make himself ready, he knew he could defeat the pain. He had no doubt.

In the end he would be wrong, despite the time they would give him, but he did not know it yet and held onto his foolish hope, stubborn man that he was. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. The Torture and Torment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our loves suffer greatly, one more so than the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've been relatively angst free up until this point, not to my usual angst levels anyway. But I'm sorry to say that's over. Though I have tried to keep the suffering as upbeat as possible, lol. 
> 
> If by any chance you've not seen the Princess Bride, nor read the book, please heed the warning(you'll see what I mean as you read.)  
> Or uh, just remember how S5 of GoT ended and.... Yeah....

  
  


The wedding was still thirty days away and Dany wondered if she might lack the strength to endure all the festivities. Smile, smile, hold hands, bow and thank, over and over. She was exhausted just from a few days, she didn’t know how she’d survive thirty of them.

It turned out someone else was having more trouble surviving than her. With only fifteen days to go, King Robert began to weaken terribly. Prince Joffrey ordered the new miracle worker brought in. There was still the last miracle worker alive, Mel, but since they had fired her long before, bringing her back on the case was simply not deemed wise; if she was incompetent then, when King Robert was only desperately ill, how could she suddenly be a cure-all now, with Robert dying? The new miracle worker Pycell swore his various tried and true medications would work, but within forty-eight hours, the King was dead.

The wedding date, of course, stayed exactly the same—it wasn’t every day a ruling family had its fifteenth anniversary—but all the festivities were either curtailed entirely or vastly cut down. Prince Joffrey became King of the Seven Kingdoms and that changed everything, because before he had taken nothing but his hunting seriously, and now he had to learn, learn _everything_. He buried himself in books, stayed locked behind doors with his mother and grandfather and his counsel. Learning how did you tax this and when should you tax that? And foreign entanglements? Who could be trusted and how far and with what?

So the wedding, when it took place, was a tiny thing and brief, sandwiched in between a small council meeting and a treasury crisis, and Dany spent her first afternoon as Queen wandering around the Red Keep not knowing what in the world to do with herself. It wasn’t until King Joffrey walked out on the balcony with her to greet the gigantic throng of smallfolk who had spent the day in patient waiting that she realized it _had_ happened at all. She _was_ the Queen. Her life, for whatever it was worth, now belonged to the people.

Once more she chose to walk among them and they swept apart to let her pass, weeping and cheering and bowing and…

Booing.

Just one mind you, an ancient woman, withered and bent, hands gnarled, teeth rotted. “Booooo, booooo, booooo!” she screamed and scorned. 

Dany did not understand. “Why do you do this?” she asked her. 

The old woman came forward, scowling her hoary face. “Because you had love in your hands and you gave it up!”

“They would've killed Jon if I hadn't done it,” she defended herself. 

A knotted, gnarled finger pointed at her. “Your true love lives and you married another!” The hag turned to the crowd and threw her arms out. “True love _saved_ her in the Fire Swamp! And she treated it like garbage,” she hissed and pointed back at Dany. “And that's what she is. The Queen of Refuse. So _bow_ down to her if you want, _bow_ to her! _Bow_ to the Queen of Slime, the Queen of Filth, the Queen of Puuuutrescence!” she spit. She came even closer, booing Dany harshly. “BOO, BOO! RUBBISH, FILTH, SLIME. MUCK.” She was right in front of Dany now, hate written clear on her wrinkled face, shining in her aged eyes. Dany had known pain, she had known grief, and she had known fear, but never had she known such venom. “BOO! BOO! BOO!” 

Dany woke with a gasp, her heart racing, face covered in sweat. She was in bed, alone, and safe. Perhaps even still loved.

But her nightmares had begun.

  
  


—

  
  


_Sorry to interrupt, but if I could have a moment, I assure you you’ll thank me for it._

_I’ve been quiet till now and let the story tell itself. It's very good at that, but it's for the best I speak up._

_Remember, back at the beginning and all the talk of life not being fair? Hopefully you do, if not, please take note now. I beg of you. Things are about to become very unfair. There's a lot of bad stuff coming up. Torture you’ve already been warned of, but there's worse than that. Death is coming_ . _You need to be prepared for it, terrible as it is. It's rare anyone ever gets a warning such as this, so please take this one to heart. I only wish to protect you._

_The wrong people will die, some of them, one in particular, and the reason is this: life is not fair. It would be terrible to tell you otherwise, and it would not only be a lie, but a cruel lie. Life is not fair, and it never has been, and it's never going to be._

_Life is pain as Jon told Dany back on top of that ravine. It's what this whole story is about. Not true love, not witty satire either. This story says ‘life isn't fair’ and I’m telling you, one and all, you better believe it. Forget all the sweet smelling garbage all the grownups have left on your curb and remember this warning instead. You’ll be a lot happier for it._

_Alright. Enough from me. Back to the story._

_More nightmares await._

  
  


—

  
  


The next night Dany dreamed of giving birth to their first child. It was a girl. A beautiful little girl with moonlit hair, skin as pale as winter's cream and eyes as grey as the stormy seas, her mouth a sweet little bow. As precious as her daughter was, Dany was worried. 

“I’m sorry it wasn’t a boy, I know you need an heir,” she told Joffrey as he stood above her and their daughter, looking her over. 

“There’s time for sons,” he assured her. “Daughters are good for other things.” 

With that he left them and Dany put her daughter to her perfect breast and the child suckled only a moment before she pulled away. “Your milk is sour,” the babe told her.

“I’m so sorry, little love.” She switched her to her other breast.

The babe pulled away again, that time with a wail. “This is sour too!”

Dany shed one tear. “I don't know what to do.”

Her baby girl frowned. “You always know what to do. You always know _exactly_ what to do. You do exactly what’s right for you, and the rest of the world can go hang.”

“You mean Jon, don't you?” she whispered.

“Of course I mean Jon.”

“But I thought he was dead. Then I gave my word to your father, and Jon would’ve died if I hadn't kept it,” she explained patiently. 

The baby shrugged. “I'm dying now. There's no love in your milk, it's cold and hard, and it's killed me.”

And the babe stiffened and cracked apart and between those cracks flames flickered out and the child burned to ash in her arms and Dany screamed and screamed; and even when she woke from the horrid nightmare she could not stop screaming. 

The third nightmare came the following night. Another babe was born to her. A son with which Joffrey was most pleased. 

“A son, an heir,” he proclaimed.

“Thank goodness I did not fail again,” Dany said and Joffrey left, the doctors with him. “May I see him please,” she called after them for they had taken her son away. 

A doctor poked his head in. “I'm afraid not,” he told her.

“And why is that?”

“The child does not wish to see you.”

“What babe does not want their mother? Bring him to me now,” she insisted. 

And then he was there, just as handsome a baby boy as one could wish for. Black of hair, skin pale, eyes grey, lips full. But he stood in the corner far from her bed. 

“Come to me, my darling boy,” she cooed at him.

He shook his head of raven curls. “You’ll kill me too.”

Dany was aghast. “Never, my love. I would never hurt you, let alone kill you. I love you,” she swore.

“You loved my sister and she died.”

“No, no that's not what—”

“You killed Jon. Did you see his face when you left him in the Fire Swamp? He died right there. You killed him dead.”

“No! No, I didn't. He was still alive when I left him.”

“You're a murderer!” her son shouted. “Murderer!”

She was out of the bed and had him in her arms, holding him tight. “Stop this please,” she begged. “I’m not a murderer. I love you, I love you all.”

His stormy grey eyes met hers. “Your love is poison. It kills.” And then he turned to blood in her arms and slipped to the floor to pool under her bare feet and she cried and cried and cried as the blood dripped from her hands. Even when she woke she could not stop crying.

  
  


—

  
  


That night Jon’s torture began. Ramsay did the actual pain inducing, Joffrey simply sat by asking questions out loud, inwardly admiring Ramsay's skill.

His friend cared about pain. Not so much that he was causing it, no, it was more the whys behind the screams he induced that he liked best. They interested him as much as the anguish itself. He read and studied anything he could get his hands on dealing with the subject of distress and Joffrey had no doubt Ramsay would enjoy every moment of every anguished, distressed scream the man in black made. As would he.

Their prey laid in his cage, still chained, as all the animals were. He looked no different than any other man in Joffrey’s eyes. Maybe sturdier perhaps. But he was no giant, more on the small side really. The Prince wasn’t altogether sure how the man in black had such prowess.

“He’s a pretty thing, don’t you think?” Ramsay whispered in his ear. “All strength and cunning and skill, and pretty too. I can see why she fawned over him.”

Joffrey stared at his friend, repulsed, his rage simmering dangerously. Most days he felt a camaraderie with Ramsay, but sometimes he wondered if perhaps his friend was a bit _too_ twisted. 

Leaving the thoughts for later he turned back to their prisoner and played the honorable king. “Have you any complaints about your treatment?” he asked him.

“None at all,” Jon replied. And in truth he had none. Oh, he might have preferred being unchained a bit now and then, but if you were to be a prisoner, you couldn’t ask for more than he’d been given. The Eunuch’s medical ministrations had been precise, his shoulder well healed. The food he’d been served was hot and nourishing, the wine and brandy wonderfully warming against the dankness of the underground cage. Jon had certainly known worse predicaments.

“You feel well, then?” the twiggy Prince went on. 

He really was just a little stick of a thing. Jon could’ve snapped him in half, and would once he was free again. 

“I’m a little stiff from being chained, but other than that, aye. I’m well.”

Joffrey smiled. “Glad to hear it. I have another question for you. And the gods themselves as my witnesses I promise to set you free tonight if you answer it. But you must answer it honestly, fully, withholding nothing. If you lie, I will know, and then I’ll lose Ramsay on you. I can promise too, that isn’t something you want.”

Those cold, dead shark eyes stared at Jon over Joffrey’s shoulder. “I’ve got nothing to hide,” he told the Prince with a shrug. “Ask your questions.”

“Who hired you to kidnap the Princess? It was someone from the Riverlands. We found their sigil on some fabric caught on her horse’s saddle. Give me a name.”

Jon didn’t believe for one second the Prince would keep his word. He’d come across his type before. But he’d play along with their little game regardless. He needed the practice. “There’s no name to give because no one hired me,” he said. “I went after her on my own. And I didn’t kidnap her. I saved her from the ones who had, the ones who intended to murder her.”

Joffrey drew in a harsh breath and blew it out, exchanging a glance with Ramsay before turning back to Jon. “You seem a reasonable man, and my princess says you saved her, so on her account, I’ll give you one more chance. Tell me the name of the man in the Riverlands who hired you. Tell me or face torture.”

Lord Bolton entered the cage, carrying two buckets and a candle. The odoriferous hint of oil reached Jon’s nose and he knew then their weapon of choice was fire. He could handle fire.

But he made himself appear properly frightened anyway. “No one hired me, I swear!” he cried out, shaking his head.

Naturally they didn’t take him by his word and just as Jon expected, Ramsay set him on fire. Just his hands. Nothing permanent or disabling; he just dipped them in the thick, black oil, three times for even coating, and bought a candle close enough to set things bubbling. When Jon screamed, “No one, no one, no one, on my life!” a sufficient number of times, Ramsay dipped his hands in the second bucket filled with cool water. 

The torture twins left the Pit soon after, Joffery with a case under his arms. He’d made certain to show Jon what it held before he left though. Three dragon eggs. A gift for his future bride. “She’ll love them, don’t you think?”

He did think. Their favorite stories as children were of Aegon, his brides, and their dragons. She would love to have such treasures and as the Eunuch came out of hiding to tend to him—he was always nearby during the torturing times, but never visible enough to be distracting—Jon thought of Dany’s smile, how bright it would be when the Prince revealed his gift.

“I feel quite invigorated,” Ramsay said as he and Joffrey began to climb the staircase up and out of the dungeons. “It’s the perfect question. He was telling the truth, clearly we both know that.” 

Joffrey nodded. Ramsay was privy to all his innermost plans for the revenge war.

“I'm fascinated to see what happens,” Ramsay went on, “which pain will be the least tolerable? The physical, or the mental anguish of having freedom offered if the truth is told, then telling it and being thought a liar.”

“The physical, no doubt,” Joffrey said, “but that’s why I showed him these,” he lifted the case of priceless eggs a bit, “I had to leave him with some mental anguish as well.”

Ramsay snickered. “Yes, that one will sting for quite some time. I don’t believe physical pain means anything to this fellow though, but we shall see.”

The truth was, Jon suffered not at all throughout their torment. Physical or mental. The screaming had been nothing more than a performance to placate them. He’d been practicing his defenses for nearly a month, having the direwolf—Ghost, he’d taken to calling him, for he was very quiet—gnaw on his appendages for practice. He’d been more than ready. The minute Ramsay brought the candle close, Jon raised his eyes to the ceiling, dropped his eyelids over them, and then in a state of deep and steady concentration, he took his mind away. 

Dany was who he thought of. Her silver moonlight hair, her winter cream skin. And he brought her very close beside him. Held her in his arms. Had her whisper in his ear throughout the burning. _“I love you. I love you so much. Only you. Forever you. I had to save you so you could save me. Will you come save me, my sweet Jon? So we can be together forever?”_

The Eunuch bandaged his fingers and palms after applying a thick healing salve to the blisters. Jon laid still through it all, his eyelids closed, Dany’s beautiful smiling face behind them.

“You better give them what they want,” the Eunuch whispered.

Jon gave a shrug.

“They never stop. Not once they start. Don't be a fool. Tell them what they want to know and be done with it.”

He shook his head. 

“The Machine is almost ready. Ramsay wants to test it on some of the animals first. Then he’ll use it on you.”

Another shrug.

“It's for your own good I tell you these things!” he hissed in Jon's ear, angry with him. 

Jon opened his eyes and stared at him. “My own good? You said yourself they were going to kill me, eventually. It doesn’t matter what I tell them, they won’t stop. There is no good for me.”

The Eunuch sat back and gave a sigh. “So you’re just going to let yourself suffer? Not even try at all.”

He wanted to tell him his secret, but he couldn't risk him telling it to his twiggy king. So he told him a truth instead. “I’ll suffer anything for her. Nothing stops true love. Not torture. Not torment. Not even death.”

  
  


—

  
  


The fourth nightmare was the last straw for Dany. Seeing her own parents strangle her to death as an infant because they believed her heartless and cruel, believed she would do nothing but break hearts and shatter lives with her coldness was too much. 

She had grown beside herself with grief for leaving Jon in the Fire Swamp. Knew she had made the biggest mistake of her life, or at least the second biggest. Agreeing to marry Joffrey being the first. 

Which was why she was outside his door and knocking. It was opened fairly quickly by his Uncle Jaime. Five sets of eyes looked at her in surprise as she entered. Joffrey, of course, his mother, his grandfather, Ser Jaime, and Lord Bolton.

The Queen Mother was the first to acknowledge her, rising to her feet and coming to her. “My child, you look a fright. Whatever is the matter?”

Daenerys wasn't insulted, quite certain she did indeed look frightening after so many nights of turmoil. “I haven't been sleeping well,” was her answer and she sidestepped her once future mother in law with a feigned smile and focused on Joffrey. “May I speak to you privately please?” 

His smile was more feigned than hers had been, his fingers twitching in clear agitation, but he stood and gave a nod. “Of course, my sweet. I’ve been remiss lately. My apologies. Running seven kingdoms takes time.”

“No apologies needed,” she replied softly as Joffrey ushered the others from the room, many long and telling looks exchanged before the door clicked closed behind them. 

He came to stand before her and clasped his hands behind his back. “Tell me. Something is troubling you terribly, I can see that. I do hope whatever it is can be easily fixed. You can't be looking like this for the wedding.”

“I don't believe there is going to be any wedding,” she whispered. 

After a scoff, Joffrey took her by the shoulders and led her to a chair. “You really haven't been sleeping well, have you?” He gently pushed her down into the chair and poured her a goblet of wine before sliding it over to her. 

She did not drink. She needed no more encouragement, her nightmares had done the job sufficiently. Raising her eyes to his she told him her heart. “I cannot marry you. I love another.”

He chuckled and she saw it. That gleeful gleam in his green eyes. That streak of cruelty she suspected was as wide and deep as the Trident. It was gone in a blink of golden lashes, but she’d seen it all the same. She braced herself for his wrath. 

But it did not come which surprised her greatly. Instead he looked on her with pity. “He's gone, you know. Your kidnapper. Sailed away on his black ship into the sunset.”

She cut her eyes at him. “I told you, he did not kidnap me. He saved me from the ones who did. And he _will_ come back.”

He gave a smothered snort. “You sound so certain of that.”

She heard Jon’s vow repeat itself over and over within her head. Just as it had done for days. His warm, soft voice swearing to save her. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

“As easy as you walked away from him? Does the man have no pride?”

“More than any man alive I sometimes think.” 

Joffrey snatched up her wine and drank it himself before sitting the goblet down none too gently. “You’ve been with me over three years now and there’s still no love for me?”

There was no point at all in lying. He already knew she didn’t. She met his eyes and raised her chin. “I do not love you, just as you do not love me.”

His top lip twitched and for some reason it brought her joy to see it. “Yet you love a man you spent one night in a swamp with?” he sneered.

“I’ve loved him for far longer,” she told him and dropped her head to stare at her folded hands. “Since we were children. We grew up together.” She raised her face to him again. “I thought he was dead, but he’s not and now I cannot marry you. If I’d known he was alive three years ago I never would’ve agreed.”

The Prince made some jeering noise in the back of his throat and forced a tight smile. “I see. And I’m to believe this childhood love of yours wasn’t trying to steal you from me.”

“He wasn’t. I swear it. A man named Littlefinger did, and two others. They meant to murder me once they got me to the Riverlands. Something about starting a war with the Blackfish. Someone hired them to do it.” 

She had her suspicions as to who had done the hiring and as her once would-be husband stared at her, his jaw clenching and his throat working, they became much more firm.

He turned away from her and went to his desk. She heard the rustle of scrolls, the opening and closing of a drawer and then he was back, standing in front of her, a pretty case resting on his palms and a pretty smile on his face. She’d expected a knife buried in her back, or perhaps her chest. “Maybe this might change your mind,” Joffrey said. “I really should wait, the wedding is still a few weeks away, but, my heart says it’s time. Your wedding gift, my sweet.”

Dany stared between him and his gift, wondering if the case held a poisonous snake or spider that would strike the moment she opened it. She trusted him not one whit. Impatient, Joffrey lifted the lid for her and she gasped. 

Dragon eggs. Three of them. Never had she ever laid eyes on any, but she knew without a doubt that’s what they were. One green, one gold, the last black. All glittering. Just as beautiful as she and Jon had imagined them to be when they were children.

With trembling fingers she reached out and stroked the black one shot through with shining scarlet. “Wherever did you find them?” she whispered, her reason for coming to see him suddenly forgotten it seemed, just as he’d hoped.

“I’m the Prince of Westeros. I ask and I receive.”

His words were a bolt searing the wonder from her mind, leaving the truth bright and clear. She rose to her feet and took the case from him, closing the lid gently. “Demand, you mean. Or perhaps _threaten_ is a better word.” Joffrey stood gaping, his mouth much like a fish’s as he watched her move to the door, his neck growing rather red. She met his gaze just before she walked out. “Thank you for my gift, I’ll be sure to take it with me when I leave.”

He was chasing her down the hall then on his spindly legs, screaming at the top of his lungs. “You’re not going anywhere! You’re mine!”

Heart racing, Dany managed to keep her lead and make it to her room before he reached her. She felt quite a bit of satisfaction when she slammed the door in his pinched little face. Quickly, she locked it, and the action was met with a deafening, persistent banging of his fists against the wood, along with his screeching. 

“Is this meant to sway me, Your Highness?” she yelled through the door. “If so, I must tell you it isn’t working in your favor.” 

“Open the door you little bitch!”

“I don’t believe I will.”

The banging stopped, and through the wood she felt him step away, though his labored breathing could certainly still be heard. “You will marry me, or you will die, painfully,” he swore softly.

“I will not marry you, and neither will I die. Not by your hands, or any you may hire. If you do not set me free I will tell all of King’s Landing, all of Westeros if I must, what an evil, cruel, and spoiled Prince they have and how he threatened me into a betrothal.” 

A dread silence followed her warning, only the rush of her blood in her ears and her pounding heart to keep her company for far too long. 

When his vile giggle reached through the door, she wished for the silence to return. “You think they’ll believe you? _You? A Targaryen?”_ A deep, full laughter now ringing in her ears, crawling down her spine with cold fingers. Then the silence was back. “They’ll think you’re mad just like all the Targaryen’s were,” he whispered. “And me? _Me,_ they’ll love. For opening my heart and home to a poor, pitiful girl. For giving her all any woman could ever want. And when you’re dead, they’ll love me even more, and wish their king to never suffer heartache again.”

The click clack of his heels sounded and swiftly drifted away. Dany slid to the floor and hugged the eggs to her chest, tears sliding down her cheeks. 

“Please, Jon. You must hurry. I’m running out of time.”

  
  


—

  
  


Jon, unfortunately, could not hurry. He was stretched spread-eagle across the back wall of his cage down in the Pit of Despair, naked save for a scrap of linen the Eunuch had tied around his waist. 

Usually, Joffrey stood outside the cage to ask the same question he always did. That night though he came inside, twirling a dagger in his slender fingers. His query had a sharp edge to it, just as the dagger’s blade did. “Tell me the name of the man who hired you and I shall set you free.”

Since things were unfolding differently that evening, Jon let the trend continue. “You and I both know who hired who and that you have no intention of ever setting me free.”

The Prince was in his face in less than a blink, the point of the dagger hovering over Jon’s left eye. “Smart, as well as strong,” he sneered. 

Jon got his eyes closed just as the blade dug in, but he was too late to take himself to Dany as it was pulled down his brow and over his cheek, slicing deep into his skin. He did not give the Prince any satisfaction however; no wincing, no hissing, and certainly no apologies or begging as the pain cut through his face. 

When next it sliced through, he held the Prince’s stare, stoic and silent as it curved around his right eye, Joffrey’s green gleam growing more malicious by the moment.

“Your Highness? Might I have a turn?” Ramsay asked from where he stood just outside the cage. 

Joffrey lifted the blade from Jon’s temple with a trembling hand, his chuckle arrogant, but underneath Jon heard the fear and he smiled. 

Ramsay plucked the dagger from his Prince’s grasp, whispering words in his ear Jon couldn’t hear as he walked him backwards out of the cage. A few moments more and he had his friend climbing the stairs up and out of the pit. Unfortunately he didn’t join him, but he did join Jon.

“You really shouldn’t provoke him, you know? He isn’t quite right up here,” he murmured as he tapped the dagger’s blade against his head. “No telling when you might push him too far. I’ll be quite put out if you do, I have so many fun things planned for us.”

“I’m beside myself with anticipation,” Jon muttered and blinked the blood from his eye. 

Ramsay giggled. “I thought you might be.” 

It was flesh eating leeches that night. Tiny mouths full of tiny teeth gnawed and chewed as they sucked his blood. Nearly a hundred were scattered over Jon’s pale skin and soon his eyes were closed and he was twitching, chains rattling as he pretended to struggle, blood dripping from the hundred mouths of the hundred wriggling leeches, each growing plump with the essence of Jon. After an hour or so Ramsay left the Eunuch to clean his subject of the nasty creatures. 

“Tell them please. They will only add to your suffering,” the Eunuch begged.

Jon could barely suppress his smile.

Again, he had felt no pain. Not once, none. He had closed his eyes and taken his mind elsewhere just as he’d done before. It was so easy. Just send it where it could contemplate eyes like the sea, hear sweet words whispered, feel soft hands. He was happy to let them enjoy themselves. His revenge would come. 

He was living now and most of all for Dany. But there was no denying there was one more thing he wanted too. Needed.

His time…

  
  


—

  
  


Prince Joffrey had no time. There seemed to be not one decision in all of King's Landing that one way or another didn’t eventually come to rest heavily upon his shoulders. Not only was he getting married, his family was having their anniversary. Not only was he noodling around in his mind the best way to keep his war going with the Riverlands, he also had to constantly have affection shining from his eyes when he felt anything but. Every detail had to be met, and met correctly.

His father was no help at all, refusing to either expire or stop mumbling and start making sense. His mother simply hovered around him, his grandfather as well. Even his Uncle Jaime. All poking, prodding, and pushing him into one decision or another. 

One decision was all his though. 

He called Meryn Trant to him late one night. Trant was a trusted member of the King’s Guard, a job he’d achieved through Joffrey’s father. He was loyal to both House Baratheon and Lannister. 

“Your Highness,” Trant greeted with a bow. He was small, but crafty, with dark darting eyes and slippery hands. Especially around young girls. But such proclivities were overlooked when one was loyal. 

Joffrey came out from behind his desk. He moved close to Trant and looked carefully around before saying softly, “I have heard, from unimpeachable sources, that men from the Riverlands have begun to infiltrate the Thieves Quarter. They are disguised as Baratheon soldiers and I’m worried.”

“I have heard not a word or whisper, Your Highness,” Trant said, perplexed.

“A prince has spies everywhere,” was Joffrey’s answer.

“I understand, since evidence points that they have tried to kidnap your fiancée. You believe such a thing might happen again?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“I’ll close off the Thieves Quarter then,” Trant said. “No one will enter and no one will leave.”

“Not good enough,” said Joffrey. “I want it emptied and every villain locked up or better yet, disposed of.” Trant did not respond quickly enough. “Is there a problem?” he demanded.

“The men are not always happy at the thought of entering the Thieves Quarter. Many of the thieves resist change.”

“Then get new men! Root them out. Form a brute squad. Get it done!” 

“Of course, Your Highness. Right away,” Trant sputtered and bowed and moved to leave.

Until the scream began and stopped him cold.

Trant had heard many things in his life, but nothing quite so eerie as what floated on the air just then. He was a brave man, but the sound frightened him down to his very bones. It wasn’t human, but he could not discern the throat of the beast it came from. But he knew one thing; it was in tremendous pain.

The beast in question was a monkey. Ramsay believed it to be closest to his intended human victim so best for testing. But as monkeys were not common in Westeros no one there had ever heard such a shriek. Not that they ever would have because no creature had ever been put to the Machine. 

The sound grew in eeriness, and it filled the night sky as it spread across the keep, the grounds, over the walls, and even into the city beyond.

It would not stop. It simply hung below the skies, an audible reminder of the existence of agony. In the Great Square dozens of children screamed back at the night, trying to blot out the blood curdling sound. Some whimpered, some only ran for home.

Then it began to lessen in volume. Soon it was hard to hear in the city, then it was gone. Soon it was hard to hear on the city walls, then it was gone from there too. Soon it shrunk across the grounds toward the first level of the Zoo of Death, where Ramsay sat fiddling with knobs, and then it was gone there as well. The monkey was dead. Ramsay rose, and it was all he could do to contain his own shriek of triumph.

He left the dungeons at a brisk run and headed straight toward Prince Joffrey’s chambers. Joffrey was seated again behind his desk. He gave him a victorious smile. “The Machine,” he said, “it’s ready.”

Dany barged in at that moment, without knocking, without being summoned, her sea blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What was that?” she demanded.

It had been several days since their nasty spat and they had avoided one another completely until that moment. Joffrey had wanted to kill her and her love with every fiber of his being, but Ramsay had reminded him of their plans, and how much better they would be if they could only be patient. Joffrey hated patience. He had soothed himself to sleep each night since imagining all the different ways he could kill her. Strangling, stabbing, slitting her pretty throat. All three suited him best.

He swallowed down his bitterness and gave her an appearance of confusion. “What was what, my dulcet darling?” he bit out.

“That horrible scream.”

He shook his head and continued to play ignorant. “l heard no scream.” He looked to his friend. “Ramsay, did you hear a scream?”

Of course, Ramsay played his part to perfection, his expression puzzled and perplexed. “No, Your Highness, I didn’t.”

Joffrey turned back to his bothersome bride-to-be. “Perhaps you’re having more nightmares?” he suggested.

Dany was having none of their game. “I wasn’t asleep and I know what I heard.”

His smile actually hurt his face. “Of course, you do. I’ll have it checked,” Joffrey said in hopes of getting her out of his presence. “My Lord, would you?” he asked Ramsay.

“Absolutely,” his comrade agreed with an easy smile before turning to Joffrey’s future wife. “Shall I escort you back to your room on my way, Princess?”

Dany nodded, though her reluctance was clear. The moment they reached her suite she bid him farewell. “Good night, my Lord.” Since the day she had met Bolton she had never trusted him. There was something in his eyes that made her feel very, very cold.

“I’m sure he’ll come in time,” Ramsay said and she froze, knowing the exact _he_ meant. “I don’t know your fellow well, but he impressed me greatly in the short time I knew him.” He smiled softly at her and a chill took her. “Any man who can find his way through the Fire Swamp can find his way to King's Landing before your wedding day.” She nodded again, for she was too afraid to speak, to give him anything that might be used against her. “He seemed so strong, so remarkably powerful,” Ramsay went on, his voice warm and lulling, smile too pleasant, eyes filled with too much joy. “I only wonder if he possessed enough sensitivity. Some as great and mighty do not. For example, I wonder: is he capable of tears?” he asked her.

“Jon would never cry,” she answered before she could keep the words behind her teeth. “Except for someone he loved,” she added, remembering his tears for her as they held each other at the bottom of the ravine, and again after the Lightning Sand. And with that she closed Ramsay away from her and alone, she went to her bed and knelt. 

Dany had given up belief in any gods when Jon died, but as of late she kept finding herself kneeling at her bedside. Praying, she supposed. The need simply took her again and again and she never fought it, allowing the whispered words to spill free from her lips again and again. At first they were always for whatever higher power might be listening, but they always ended up as pleas to Jon.

_Please come, my love. Please. I have begged you in my thoughts now these many weeks and still no word. When we were young and on the farm, I thought I loved you, but that was not love. When you died, my heart died with you. When I saw your face again behind the mask on the ravine floor, I came alive once more and thought I surely knew love, but again I was wrong. Beloved, now I know I truly love you as no other has ever loved before. I pray you only come back to me and allow me the chance to spend my life in constant proving. I could spend my life in the Fire Swamp from morning till night if you were by me. I could spend forever sinking down through the lightning sand if my hand held yours. I long to spend eternity with you beside me on a cloud, but the seven hells would also be a lark if you were with me. Come back to me, Jon. Let me love you._

She went on that way, silent hour after silent hour. She had done nothing else for nearly a month of evenings, and each night her ardor deepened.

  
  


—

  
  


Jon was spending his evenings, and his days actually, in much the same fashion. After the torture was done, when the Eunuch had finished tending his cuts or burns or breaks, when he was alone in the cage save for Ghost’s silent presence, he sent his heart and mind to Dany, and there they dwelled just as they had all the years he’d spent away from her. She was all that kept him breathing. Her and the hope of freedom he needed to get to her.

When Ramsay appeared with the Machine, Jon was not particularly perturbed. As a matter of fact, he had no idea what Ramsay was bringing with him into the cage. As a matter of absolute fact, Ramsay was bringing nothing; it was the Eunuch who was doing the actual work, making trip after trip with thing after thing.

That’s what it really looked like to Jon, just things. Little soft rimmed cups of various sizes, a wheel, and another object that could turn out to be either a lever or just a plain stick. It was hard to tell.

“Good evening,” Ramsay greeted him in that soft smooth way of his, his smile brilliant and almost blinding in the dimness. 

He had never, to Jon’s memory, shown such excitement. Jon made a very weak nod in return. He felt as well as ever, naturally, but it didn’t do to let that kind of news get out.

“Feeling a bit under the weather?” Ramsay queried.

Jon gave another feeble nod. 

The Eunuch—Varys, he had since learned was his name—scurried in and out, bringing more things. Wirelike extensions, stringy and endless. Tubes, bumpy and bendy. A box, rectangular and cumbersome. 

“That will be all,” Ramsay dismissed him.

With a quick pitying look in Jon’s direction and a silent nod for Ramsay, the Eunuch was gone. No doubt to hide in the shadows. 

Ghost hid too, tucked into a dark corner of his cage. Jon talked to him when they were alone. Told him of Dany, of his time as Roberts, of the future he wanted for them. And most importantly he told him he needed to hide when Ramsay and the Prince came. They couldn't know they were friends. Ghost should never try to defend him or save him, only hide. Jon didn't quite understand how the beast understood, only that he did and he was thankful.

“This is the Machine,” Ramsay told him once they were alone. “I’ve spent years designing it. As I’m sure you can tell, I’m rather proud of it, and even more excited to try it out.”

Jon gave him an affirmative blink.

“I’ll be putting it together for a while. You just rest.” And with that, Lord Bolton got busy. 

Through his lashes Jon watched the construction with a good deal of interest and, logically enough, curiosity. 

“Did you happen to hear the scream the other night?” Ramsay asked. 

Another affirmative blink. Jon was loath to admit it, even to himself, but that scream had sent more fear through him than anything ever had, save nearly losing Dany to the Lightning Sand. 

“That was a monkey,” Ramsay offered. “This machine caused it to make that sound.” 

Something twisted in Jon’s stomach. He ignored it.

It was a very complex job Ramsay was doing, but the six fingers on his right hand never for a moment seemed in doubt as to just what to do. “I’m very interested in pain,” he went on, “as I’m sure you’ve gathered these past few weeks. In an intellectual way, actually. I’ve even written on the subject. Articles mostly. At the present I’m engaged in writing a book. My book. _The_ book, I hope. The definitive work on pain, at least as we know it now.”

Jon found the whole thing fascinating. He made a little groan. 

“I think pain is the most underrated emotion available to us,” Ramsay said. “Pain has always been with us, and it irritates me to no end when people say ‘as important as life and death’ because the proper phrase, to my mind, should be, ‘as important as pain and death.’” Ramsay fell silent for a time, as he began and completed a series of complex adjustments. “One of my theories,” he said sometime later, “is that true pain involves anticipation. Nothing original, I admit, but I’m going to demonstrate to you what I mean.”

Just to be polite, Jon lifted his eyebrows in acknowledgment.

“I will _not_ use the Machine on you tonight,” the lord said. “I could, of course. It’s ready and tested. But instead I will simply leave it with you, so you may stare at it all night, wondering just what it is and how it works and can it really be as dreadful as all that.” He tightened some things here, loosen some more over there, tugged and patted and tapped.

The Machine looked so silly and harmless Jon was tempted to giggle. Instead, he groaned again.

“I’ll leave you to your imagination then,” Ramsay said, and he turned to Jon, squatted down so they were eye level. “I want you to know one thing before tomorrow night happens to you, and I mean this. You are the strongest, the most brilliant and brave, the most altogether worthy creature it has ever been my privilege to meet, and I feel almost sad for the purposes of my book and future pain scholars, that I must destroy you.”

“I appreciate that,” Jon breathed softly.

Ramsay stood and went to the cage door. He looked back over his shoulder. “There’s no need for you to keep performing your weak and beaten act, by the way. You haven’t fooled me at all. You’re practically as strong now as the day you entered the Fire Swamp. I know your secret, if that’s any consolation to you.”

Jon, of course, played dumb. “My secret?” 

“You’ve been taking your mind away,” Ramsay said with a grin. “You haven’t felt the least discomfort in all these weeks. You raise your pretty eyes and drop your eyelids and then you’re off, probably with, I don’t know, _her_ , most likely.” His grin grew into a smile. “Good night now. Try and sleep. I doubt you’ll be able to. Anticipation, remember?” With a chuckle and a wave, he mounted the stairs and left the dungeons.

Jon felt a sudden pressure in his heart.

Varys appeared and knelt by his side, his expression quite desperate. “I’ve been watching you all these weeks. You deserve better than what’s coming. I’m needed. No one else feeds the beasts as I do. I’m safe. They won’t hurt me. I’ll kill you if you’d like. Take the joy of it from them. I have poison. I beg you, I’ve seen that machine work. I was there when that monkey screamed. Please let me help you. You’ll thank me, I swear.”

“No, I have to live.” 

“But—“

“They will not reach me. I’m alright. I’m fine. I’m alive, and I will stay that way.” He said the words loud, and he said them with passion. But for the first time in a long time, there was terror barely hidden beneath them. 

The Eunuch shook his head and gave a sigh. “I appreciate your perseverance, my friend, but—“

“Let me go.” Jon winced the moment the plea left his lips. It was cowardly and craven and he was neither of those things, but it also made him hopeful.

With a heavier sigh Varys sat back on his haunches. “I would if I could, but the keys to your chains… Lord Bolton keeps them on his person.”

The grain of hope Jon had grasped onto slipped away. “Alright, if, and I stress the _if_ greatly, I do not walk out of here alive and on my own would you do something for me?”

“If it’s within my power, absolutely.”

Jon looked over at his quiet companion, bright red eyes meeting his. He reached through the bars and gave him a good scratch under his ear. “Free the wolf. He’s too splendid a creature for those bastards to get their hands on.” He turned back to the Eunuch. “And the Princess…” He swallowed hard, his heart rising into his throat. “If you can find a way, tell her I’m sorry and I love her. Remind her that even death cannot stop true love and I’ll be waiting for her.”

  
  


—

  
  


“Well, how did you sleep?” Ramsay asked with a bright smile the next night upon his arrival in the cage.

“Quite honestly, not at all,” Jon replied in his normal voice. For once he wasn't trying to be glib, it was the truth and nothing more. He’d stayed awake all night and day sending his heart and mind to Dany.

“Oh good, we’re being honest tonight. I’ll be honest too. No more games between us.” He put down a number of scrolls and quill pens and ink bottles. “I must carefully track your reactions,” he explained.

“I’m the name of science?” Jon quipped.

Ramsay nodded, ignoring the witticism. “If my experiments are valid, my name will last far beyond my life. It’s immortality I’m after, to be quite honest.” He adjusted a few knobs on the machine. “I suppose you’re curious as to how this works.”

“I spent the night studying and pondering and I know no more than when I started,” Jon replied. “It appears to be a great conglomeration of soft cups of varied sizes, together with a wheel and a dial and a lever. And lots of wires and tubes. What it does is beyond me.”

“Don’t forget the glue,” added Ramsay, pointing to a small tub of thick brown muck with a grin. “To keep the cups attached.” And with that, Jon’s tormentor set to work, taking cup after cup, touching the soft rims to the glue, and setting them against Jon’s skin. “Eventually I’ll have to put one on your tongue too,” Ramsay said, “but I’ll save that for last in case you have any questions.”

“Certainly isn’t the easiest thing to set up, is it?”

Ramsay chuckled. “No, it isn’t, but I’ll be able to fix that in later models,” he said, “at least those are my present plans.” He kept right on putting cup after cup on Jon skin until every inch of exposed surface was covered. Which was a lot, because, again, he was naked, save for the scrap of linen around his middle. “So much for the outside,” Ramsay sang. “The next is a bit more delicate, try not to move.”

“I’m chained hand and foot,” Jon grumbled. “How much movement do you think I’m capable of?” 

Ramsay paused a moment and stared at Jon with his cold blue eyes. He seemed genuinely curious, not an ounce of deceit in his gaze. “Are you really as brave as you sound, or are you a little frightened?” he asked. “Tell the truth, please. This is for prosperity, remember.”

“I’m a little frightened,” Jon admitted.

Ramsay jotted that down, along with the time. Then he got down to the fine work, and soon there were tiny tiny soft rimmed cups on the inside of Jon’s nostrils, against his ears, under his eyelids, above and below his tongue, and before Ramsay arose Jon was covered inside and out with the things. “Now all I do,” Ramsay said very loudly, hoping Jon could hear, “is get the wheel going to its fastest spin so that I have more than enough power to operate. The dial can be set from one to twenty. Since this is the first time, I’ll set it at one. And then all I need to do is push the lever forward, and we should, if I haven’t gummed up, be in full operation.”

But Jon, had taken his mind away the moment the wheel began to spin, and when the Machine began its work, Jon was stroking Dany’s moonlit hair and touching her skin of wintry cream and— and— and— 

His world exploded.

The cups, the cups were everywhere, and before, they had punished his body but left his mind, but not the Machine. The Machine reached everywhere. His eyes were not his to control, his ears could not hear her gentle loving whisper, his skin could not feel the softness of hers. There was only pain. His brain still slid away, but so far from love it fell into the deep pit of despair, hit hard, and fell again, down through the house of agony and into the kingdom of anguish. Inside and out, Jon’s world was ripping apart and he could do nothing but split apart with it.

Ramsay turned off the Machine then and picked up his notebooks. “As you no doubt know, the concept of the suction pump is centuries old. That's basically all my machine is, except instead of water, I’m sucking life. I have just sucked away one year of your life. Later I’ll set the dial higher, certainly to two or three, perhaps even to five. Theoretically, five should be five times more severe than what you just endured, so please be specific in your answers. Tell me now, honestly: how do you feel?”

In humiliation, in suffering, in frustration, and in anger and anguish so great it was dizzying Jon cried like a baby.

“Interesting,” Ramsay murmured and carefully made a note on one of his scrolls. 

  
  


—

  
  


It took Trant a week to get his enforcers together in sufficient number, together with an adequate Brute Squad. And so, five days before the wedding, he stood at the head of his company awaiting the speech of the Prince. 

They were in the castle courtyard, and when the Prince appeared, Ramsay was, as usual with him, although not as usual, Ramsay seemed preoccupied. Which, of course he was, but Trant had no way of knowing that. Ramsay had sucked ten years from Jon in the past week. With the usual life expectancy of sixty-five years for an average Westeroi male, his victim had approximately thirty years remaining, assuming he was near twenty-five when they started experimenting. But how best to go about dividing that? Ramsay simply was in a quandary. So many possibilities, but which would prove, scientifically, most interesting? Ramsay sighed; life was never easy.

“You’re here because there may be another plot against my princess,” Prince Joffrey began. “I charge each and everyone of you with being her personal protector. I want the Thieves Quarter emptied and all the hooligans jailed twenty-four hours before my wedding. Not a single one must be left free to harm my bride. I trust you will not fail me.” With that he pivoted, and followed by Ramsay hurried from the courtyard, leaving Maryn in command.

They began immediately, working long and hard at it each day, but the Quarter covered a square mile, so there was much to do. Most of the criminals had been through unjust and illegal round ups before, so they offered little resistance. In truth a few days of incarceration was actually an improvement from life in the Quarter. 

There was, however, a second group, who realized that capture meant, for various past performances, death. Those, without exception, resisted. 

Still, thirty-six hours before the sunset wedding, there were half a dozen hold outs left. Trant arose at dawn, tired and confused—not one of the captured criminals seemed to come from the Riverlands—he gathered the best of the Brute Squad and led them into the Thieves Quarter for what simply had to be the final forey.

He immediately went to the ale house where a particularly troublesome criminal was holding out, first sending all save two brutes off on various tasks, keeping a noisy one and a quiet one for his own needs.

They walked in without preamble and found exactly who he’d expected. 

“Not you lot again,” she slurred from where she sat at a table in the center of the room, eyelids heavy, cheeks flushed. Just as the day before there were empty bottles at her feet, and the room reeked of strong drink. 

“I told you yesterday we’d be back,” Meryn said. 

“An’ I told you to sod off. I’m stayin’ right here.”

“The Prin—“

Several things happened at once to cause Meryn‘s words to die in his throat. Behind him the quiet brute thunked the noisy one on the head—even though he hadn’t been being noisy at all. He dropped to the floor with a thump, certain to not be noisy for hours, or possibly ever again. Trant’s head was on a swivel and spinning round from one brute to the next in shock but then the troublesome criminal drew all of his attention. She had gotten to her feet in a flash, the pointy end of her skinny blade sticking just under his chin.

“The day I do anything to please your pompous little prince,” she whispered, “will be the day I die. And that is not this day.” 

Trant, much to his embarrassment could only snivel and stare at her wide-eyed. His blood was trickling warm and wet down his neck.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked. He did not answer, to do so would’ve eased her blade deeper into his skin. “How about Syrio Forel? Remember him?” 

He closed his eyes, for he did indeed remember. It all became quite clear for him then. Who she was, why her sword was pricking his throat. How he would die.

“Get it over with, girl. This other one might wake up on us,” Sandor grumbled.

She smiled before she slid her sword up and into his brain. “Farewell Meryn Trant.”

He crumpled to the floor the moment she pulled her sword free and they spent the next half hour hiding the bodies. 

Sandor had joined the Brute Squad because they needed money. Arya had been drinking up every other penny they had since they’d returned to King’s Landing. Dealing with her failure against the man in black and her fear of never finding or beating the six-fingered man hadn’t been easy on her. The Hound had suffered both in his time so he let her be, knowing she would eventually find her way out of the melancholy. She was the toughest girl he’d ever known. 

Working for the crown had more perks than putting money in their pocket. It also allowed him to hear things most weren’t privy to. The name of Arya’s six-fingered man for instance. One Ramsay Bolton. Turned out he wasn’t just an executioner, he was Prince Joffrey’s trusted confidant, the pair rarely out of each other’s sight. That dampened the good news of finally learning his identity however. They had no idea how to get to him without losing their lives rather quickly. 

What they needed was time to plan and the peace to plan it in. 

So when the order came around that the Brute Squad needed to clear out the Thieves Quarter, Sandor had known just what to do. Offing Trant was just icing on the cake for Arya.

She had been pretending to be horribly drunk for a week and giving the Brute Squad a terrible time, threatening every one of them that got close with her slashing and swishing sword. In truth she was only mostly drunk, but it gave them the time needed to get the Quarter emptied so they could be alone. And that day so Sandor had the chance to dispatch with the other brute so she could have a little fun with Trant. 

The moment they got back to the alehouse Arya began to pace, her movements quick and short, the way her movements were before she was mostly drunk. “Alright, tell me where the six fingered man is so I can go kill him.”

Sandor shook his head. “You know you can’t get to him. He's with the Prince in that bloody keep and Joffrey has sworn not to leave it until after the wedding. He claims there’s another attack coming from the Riverlands.”

“We both know that’s a load of horseshit.”

“Aye, doesn’t mean he’s not locked up in his big red castle with all but one gate sealed. Twenty Goldcloaks guard it.” 

Arya hummed, pacing faster now. ”If you fight five and I fight five that would be ten dead, which is good but also bad because there’d be ten left who would surely kill us. _But_ ,” and now she picked up her pace even more, “if you take six and I take eight, that’s fourteen beaten, which isn't as bad, but still bad enough. Six could still easily kill us.” She whirled on Sandor. ”How many could you handle at most?”

“They’re all as bloody big as me, so no more than eight.”

“That leaves me twelve. That's not impossible, but not the best way to spend your first evening not drunk.”

She was blazing about the room again and for the first time her fingers were snapping with excitement. “I need a master.” She slapped the table between them. “I need the man in black! He bested me with steel, my greatness. He bested you in strength, your greatness. We know he outwitted Littlefinger since he was dead. So surely he can tell me how to get into the keep and kill the six-fingered bastard that killed my father. Do you have any idea where the men in black is? Has anyone said anything about him?”

Sandor nodded and Arya smiled. “Aye, that he sails the seas with the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

Her smile was quickly replaced with a scowl. “Why would he do a thing like that?”

“Because, he’s a bloody sailor. Why else?”

“Him? A sailor? A _common_ sailor? Bloody bullshit! No ordinary sailor could’ve bested me, or you, or Littlefinger. Let alone all three of us.” Her eyes went wide. “He must _be_ the Dread Pirate Roberts,” she whispered.

“I reckon he could be.”

“I know he is! And we’re gonna find him.”

“How? I already told you— _"_

“He’s not sailing anywhere. He’s here in King’s Landing,” she declared.

“And what makes you think that?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re dense sometimes you know that?” She didn’t give him time to answer and he didn’t try. “If you’ve heard from the keep he’s sailing away that means he isn’t. Joffrey caught him somehow. That man ruined Joffrey’s plans to kill the Princess and start a war. I guarantee you he’s got him in that Zoo of his and is torturing him for all the trouble he caused. Not to mention he loves Joffrey’s bride to be. We all know what Joffrey’s temper’s like. The man in black left us alive when he could’ve killed us, we need to go save him for that alone, but also so he can help me kill this Lord Bolton.” She ran to the door and threw it open. “Are you coming?” she hollered over her shoulder. 

“Will it shut you up?”

“Maybe.”

With a groan he got up and followed her out. “Aye, I’m coming.”

  
  


—

  
  


It was dusk when they began their search through the bowels of the Red Keep a day before the wedding. 

It was dusk when Ramsay began his nightly experiments. Gathering his notebooks from his room, filled with all his jottings. 

It was dusk behind the high castle walls and five levels under the keep. Locked and chained and silent, Jon waited beside the Machine. In a way he still looked like Jon, except, of course, he had been broken. Twenty years of his life had been sucked away. Twenty or so were left. Pain was anticipation. Soon Ramsey would come again. Against any wishes he had left, Jon went on crying, Ghost licking the tears from his cheeks.

It was dusk when Dany went to see Joffrey. She knocked loudly, waited and knocked again. He was shouting inside but she didn’t care. She walked in anyway. The look of anger on Joffrey‘s face immediately turned into the sweetest smile.

“Beloved,” he cooed, “come in. A moment more is all I need.” He turned back to his Uncle Jaime. “Look at her, Uncle. My bride to be. Has any man ever been so blessed?” 

Ser Jaime shook his head. “No, I don't believe so.”

“Am I wrong, then, do you think, to go to any lengths, to protect her?”

Ser Jaime shook his head again. “Of course not, my Prince.” 

“I tell you, the Tullys are everywhere,” Joffrey went on. “This is retribution for spurning that lady of theirs. The bald one, remember? I don't even remember her name.”

“Sansa, Your Highness,” Ser Jaime provided. 

“Yes, her. How they ever thought— nevermind, it doesn't matter. Trant has proven useless at stopping them.” He pointed a finger at his uncle. “Once this is dealt with you will find Trant and end him for leaving his post.” Jaime nodded. “All the gates have been sealed except the front one, yes?”

“Yes, Your Highness. Twenty men guard it.”

“Add eighty more. I want a hundred men, do you understand? Can you count that high?”

Ser Jaime gave a tight smile. “Of course, Your Highness. A hundred. It’ll be done.”

With a nod toward Dany the knight left, quietly closing the door behind him and leaving her alone with Joffrey.

She stepped further into the room. “It is not the Tully’s, or the Blackfish, or any man from the Riverlands you guard against,” she dared to say.

Joffrey blinked at her in a moment of silence. But in his blink, in that following silence, Dany had seen it all. The truth. 

“Whatever are you talking about?” he chuckled dismissively.

“No one from the Riverlands means me any harm. You only wish people to think so.”

He sniffed and moved some papers about on his desk. “Whatever I’m doing is for your own good.”

“Somehow, I do not think so.”

The tone in her voice did not please him. He looked up at her and forced a smile. “You’re nervous, I’m nervous. We’re getting married tomorrow, we’ve got a right to be.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong. I am very calm.” And in truth she did seem that way. There was no sign of hysterics, or tears, or wringing hands. She took a step closer and stared at him with stormy eyes. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, or haven’t done. I will not marry you. My sweet Jon will come for me. He will save me from you.”

Joffrey clenched his fists, his teeth creaked, but he held his temper. “You’re a silly girl, now go to your room. I'm busy.”

She did not move, not one inch. “I am a silly girl, and I will go to my room, and you are a coward with a heart filled with nothing but fear.”

He had to laugh at that so preposterous it was. “You dare call _me_ a coward?”

“I do. You are a coward. You hunt and kill to reassure yourself you’re not. But you are the weakest, most pathetic thing to ever walk the earth. He will come for me and then we will be gone. And you will be helpless for all your hunting because Jon and I are joined by true love and you cannot track that. Not with a thousand bloodhounds. Not with a thousand ships. And you cannot break it, not with a thousand swords.”

Joffrey screamed toward her then, his vision red, his blood boiling. He ripped at her moonlit hair, yanking her from her feet and down the long curving corridor to her room, where he tore the door open and threw her inside and locked her there before running straight for the dungeons. 

Down he plunged, flying down the stairs, and when he threw open the door of the fifth level, the Pit of Despair, even Ramsey was startled at the purity of emotion that was glowed in Joffrey’s eyes.

The Prince moved to Jon’s side, his breath hot and putrid in his face. And had he not had twenty years of his life drained away, had he not been broken, Jon may have wrapped his hands around his twiggy neck and strangled him to death. But as it was he could only stare at him through his tears. 

“She loves you,” the Prince hissed in his ear. “She loves you still and you love her. True love she says. Is that what's kept you alive? I think so. I also think you might have been happy, genuinely happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, not really, no matter what the storybooks say. But you two could’ve had it. So I think no one will ever suffer a loss as great as you.”

With that he grabbed the dial on the Machine and turned it all the way.

“Not to twenty!” cried Ramsay.

But by then it was too late. Jon was indeed suffering as no human ever had before and his death scream had begun.

It was much worse than the scream the monkey had made. In the first place, the dial for the monkey had only been set at six, whereas this was more than triple that. And so, naturally enough, it was more than three times as long. And more than three times as loud. But none of this really was why it was worse. 

It was the scream from a human throat that made the difference.

In her chamber, Dany heard it, and at first it frightened her terribly, but then it made her very sad. So sad tears washed her cheeks.

By the main gate of the keep Ser Jaime heard it, and it also frightened him. 

All the hundred Gold Cloaks flanked by the main gate heard it too. They were bothered by it and they talked it over for quite a while, but none of them had any notion of what might make such a sound. 

The Great Square was filled with smallfolk excited about the coming wedding and anniversary. They heard it too, and no one even made the pretense of not being terrified, but again, none of them knew at all what it might have been.

But as the death scream rose higher in the night Arya Stark knew immediately what it was.

In the tiny alley that she and Sandor were trying to force their way through, she stopped, remembering. 

“What the bloody hells is that?” the Hound asked behind her, his skin having turned cold at the horrible sound.

Arya grabbed her friend and the words began pouring out. “That’s the sound of ultimate suffering. I know that sound. My heart made that sound when Ramsay cut my father's head off and I saw it leave his body. The man in black makes it now.”

“You really think it’s him?”

“I know it is. Who else? His true love marries another tomorrow.” And with that, she started to follow the scream. But the crowds were in her way, and she was strong but she was small and she cried, “Sandor! Clear a path, I have to find him!”

“Everybody _MOVE!”_ the Hound roared.

Everyone moved. 

But not a minute later the scream was gone and Jon laid dead beside the Machine, limp and lifeless. 

Joffrey kept the dial turned to twenty far longer than was needed, until Ramsay had given a hiss of anger and snatched the Prince’s hand off his invention. “You’ve done it, he’s dead. Happy now?”

Without another look in Jon’s direction, Joffrey stared into his friend’s bitter blue eyes. “That little bitch actually called me a coward,” he spit and then he was gone and Ramsay was left to mourn the loss of his greatest foe.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. The Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death cannot stop true love, neither can a nasty Prince, and oh, revenge... How sweet it is. Just not as sweet as love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end and I'm not gonna cry. Who am I kidding, I definitely am. 
> 
> I struggled with how to end this. I always struggle with endings, but I had so many options available. The book sort of has two endings, three actually if you consider Buttercup's Baby. Then there's the movie ending. 
> 
> So I smashed all those together a bit and added some of my own flourishes with some more sprinkles from GoT. I hope you all approve. Ashley and Frost loved it, so hopefully that will keep your worries at bay as you read. 
> 
> Thank you all for joining me on this adventurous ride, you're a joy to my heart and...
> 
> As you wish. 😘

  


Varys was terribly sad at the sudden turn of events. Jon’s end had been certain to come eventually, but he had hoped even with Jon denying him at every offer that the young man could leave the world peacefully. He should’ve known better. 

The direwolf’s glowing red eyes looked at him helplessly and he gave the softest of whimpers as he nudged Jon’s limp fingers with his snout. 

“My sorry, my friend,” was all Varys could think to say as he entered the cage and began pulling off all the horrid cups from Jon’s skin. Several on his chest and torso left gaping wounds where they’d split him apart, his life being ripped from him so violently. 

The task took over an hour, and another was spent cleaning his body and redressing him. It felt wrong not to. After that, he left through the secret entrance and went to fetch a wheelbarrow so he could bury him properly. He was just about to the entrance again when…

“I’m having seven hells worth of time tracking that scream,” a small, soft voice spoke. He whirled around and there, right in front of him, at the secret entrance stood a small stranger with a sword in her hand. With a _swish swish_ it suddenly flicked under his nose and again to his throat. “Where is the man in black?” she demanded. 

Varys played ignorant, giving a shrug and a frown. “I know no man in black.”

Her eyes narrowed and the pointy end of her sword pricked his neck. The very large and scarred brute behind her growled and Varys decided they were not a pair to be trifled with. “Jon?” he whispered. 

“A sailor?” the girl asked. “Brought in by the Prince and Lord Bolton?”

He nodded. 

“Where is he?”

Now Varys felt torn. Were these friends of poor Jon? If so, might they kill him if he were to tell them he was dead? And even if they didn't, what would Ramsay and the Prince do to him if they were to find out? 

The sword pinched and stung as it pressed deeper into his throat. “I said, where is he?” 

Varys shook his head and gave them a look of pity. “I'm sorry, but you're too late.”

The sword finally left his throat and he drew in a breath of relief. “What do you mean, too late?” the girl asked. 

The brute stepped up beside her. “He's dead, isn't he?”

“I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid so.”

“Take me to him,” the girl insisted.

Her brute didn't seem happy about that. “Did you not hear him, girl?” he asked her quietly. “He's dead.”

“I don't care!” she shrieked. 

And in fact, she didn’t. Arya knew in her heart the man in black was the key she needed. There was no other reason for it all to be coming together after so many years of waiting. Her mother had believed in all seven gods, her father the old, if they were real the man in black was waiting. Arya knew it in her heart. She _knew_ it. Her father had to be avenged and the man in black would figure out how. That was enough for her. 

“Take us to him,” she repeated.

  
  


—

  
  


Her thin thread of hope nearly unraveled at the sight of the man in black lying cold and pale upon a table deep down inside the Pit of Despair.

He looked nothing like the man she had danced and dueled with atop the Cliffs of Insanity. He wouldn't have even with his mask on. They had broken him, brutally.

“I begged him to let me end his torment sooner,” Varys said quietly as they stared down at him. “He refused.”

“Why?” Sandor asked. 

“The Princess,” Arya whispered without looking up. 

Varys nodded. “He said he would suffer anything for her. I’m not sure even she was worth what they did to him.”

“It was true love,” Arya said. “I saw it in both of them, in their eyes, heard it in their voices when they spoke of each other. In his heart she was worth it.”

“He wanted me to remind her that not even death could stop it.”

“That all he asked?”

He shook his head and walked over to the wolf's cage. The beast had been despondent since Jon’s death, pacing and whining as Varys prepared him for burial. Now the wolf sat silently, patiently, as he unlocked the cage, wondering if he'd lost his mind to let such a beast loose. With a quick prayer he opened the door and the wolf padded out and went straight to Jon, nosing at his face. 

The girl and her brute had stepped back, giving him a wide berth, their hands on their weapons. 

“That beast hates everyone, always has. It's a miracle the Prince hasn't killed him already. He’ll probably kill me for letting him go, but… Jon asked me to, and the wolf liked him, so I will. One of them needs to leave here alive.”

His own words sparked an idea to light in his head. He looked between the girl and the brute. “I'm not sure if she’ll agree, but there is someone who might be helpful in this situation,” he offered. 

The girl's eyes filled with hope. “Who? Tell me.”

“Miracle Mel.”

“The King’s old Miracle Worker?”

Varys nodded. “That would be her.”

“Where is she?”

“Just outside the city walls. There's a little hut in the King’s Wood. You’ll find her there.”

“Sandor, pick him up and let's go,” she ordered. 

“You want me to carry a dead man all the way to the King’s Wood?”

“Absolutely. We have a keep to storm and we need him alive to do it.”

  
  


—

  
  


When the knocking started on her door, Mel almost didn’t answer. “Go away,” she wanted to hiss, because lately it was only the children who came knocking. Except it was a little past the time for children—it was almost midnight—and besides, the knocking was both loud and at the same time rat-a-tatty. As if the brain was saying to the fist, “Hurry it up, I want to see some action.”

So Mel opened the door just enough her nose fit through. “What do you want?”

“Are you Miracle Mel? The one who worked for the King all those years?” a skinny girl asked. 

“If you know who I am, then you also know why I am no longer who I was. The King’s bitch fired me. I thank _you_ so much for reminding me of such a painful subject. Forgive me if I don't stay around to let you stick me with that needle too.” She shut her door with a snap. 

_Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!_

She yanked it open again and gave her best witchy snarl. “Go away! Or I’ll call the Brute Squad.”

“I'm on the Brute Squad,” a big deep voice said from behind the girl. It was the kind of voice one wanted to stay friendly with. The owner of the voice stepped into the light. An enormous white wolf showed itself as well and Mel decided she definitely wanted to be friends. 

“I believe you might just be the Brute Squad,” she whispered with a small smile.

The girl drew close. “We need a miracle, and we need it quick. It's very important.” 

“And it’s me you sought out?” Mel asked with a roll of her eyes. “The Queen believed me worthless. Aren't you afraid I might kill whoever you want the miracle for?”

“He's already dead,” the brute mumbled and hefted up the body in his arm. A body that indeed looked very dead.

Melisandre felt that old familiar tingle rise up her spine and the fire flick to life within her veins. “I'm fairly good at dead,” she replied and opened her door and waved them in. “But I make no promises.”

The girl rushed by her and her brutish friend followed carrying in the limp corpse, a man dressed all in black. The wolf brought up the rear.

She motioned for them to place the dead man on her table and she poked at him, pretty thing that he’d been. Lifted his hand and let it fall. Inspected his wounds and scars. “Not so stiff as some,” she muttered. “I’ve seen worse.” 

“Ma’am, we’re in a terrible rush,” the girl said.

“It is not wise to rush me, girl. Rushing leads to bad miracles. Rotten ones. Perhaps that is what you want?”

The girl's eyes lit up, a smile stretching her face. “Does that mean you’ll do it?!”

Mel shook her head. “I do not believe I said anything of the sort.” She looked between them, both dirty and unkempt. They probably didn't have a single coin between them. “How much are you willing to pay?”

The girl slung her hand into the brute's stomach. “Give her what we got.”

“You mean what I got,” he grumbled, but pulled a small pouch from around his waist and tossed it onto the table. 

Miracle Mel picked it up, pleased by the weight of it, though a heavier pouch would've done her better. “I’ve never worked for so little,” she scoffed. “Wait here. I must confer with my Lord.”

She slipped behind the curtain where her husband stood waiting, face as stern as always. “Who are they and what do they want?” he demanded.

“A girl, a brute, a direwolf, and a dead man. They want the dead one alive again.” 

“You were always good at dead,” Stannis murmured.

She handed him the pouch. “This is all they had.”

He poured the coin into his palm and his eyebrows rose a fraction. They’d been short of coin for years now, ever since Cersei ran them off. “Not as much as you're worth, of course, but enough perhaps to purchase more potions. And we're almost out of chocolate powder.”

“Not the chocolate powder?” she gasped. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Stannis avoided the question with one of his own. “Have you asked them why they need him alive again?”

“They’d probably lie.”

“Use the bellows cram. If they're lying you’ll know soon enough. If they are, I’ll get rid of them. If not, you’ve earned your keep.”

Her bright blue eyes flashed. “Feeling the need to push me tonight I see,” she muttered and slipped back around the curtain before he could reply. “Alright,” she said to the odd pair in her kitchen as she went to her fire and stoked the flames, staring into them. “What is so special about this one that I should bring him back?” She eyed the girl over her shoulder. “Are you sweet on him? He was certainly well put together,” she murmured, enjoying the view the dead man made on her table, even if he was a bit stiff and pasty.

“What!? No!” the girl squawked.

“Then, what was it? And know this about me,” she eyed them coldly, “I only work for a noble cause.”

“Oh, this is noble,” the girl said softly, seriously. “His wife is cripple, his little ones starving to death. There's a dozen of them.”

Mel rolled her eyes. “You are a terrible liar.” 

The girl was around the table and in her face then, eyes bright. “I need him to help me avenge my murdered father.”

She waved a dismissive hand at her. “Your first lie was better. I will ask him myself. No doubt he owes you money.”

“He's dead,” the girl sputtered. “He can't talk.”

Mel hummed. “Who is the miracle worker here? You, or me?” she quipped as she came back with her huge bellows and lifted them above him. “Open his mouth.”

The girl did as asked and Mel stuck the bellows between Jon’s plump lips and down his throat and started to pump. “Your pretty friend here is only mostly dead and there is a difference between _mostly_ dead and _all_ dead,” she told them, still pumping and pumping and pumping. “Mostly dead also means he’s slightly alive.”

Jon was beginning to not so _slightly_ swell from all the pumping. 

The Hound stepped back from the table, his eyes wary as Jon’s corpse continued to grow. “Girl, you better back up,” he said, his deep voice quivering with fear. 

The wolf drew closer, sitting down at his master's head, his red eyes watching Melisandre’s every move.

“I'm only filling his lungs,” Mel assured the brute. “I won't pop him and I promise he feels nothing.” She stopped her pumping and finally put the bellows down before she leaned close to Jon’s ear. “Hello in there, pretty boy. What's so important, hmmm? What do you have here that's worth living for?” With that she stood and pressed down on Jon’s chest. 

His full lips popped open and an eerie groan slipped out. _“Trrruuuu… luuuvv…”_

Sandor jumped back, eyes nearly falling out of his head as he yanked Arya with him, but she was quick to rush back to the table. “True love!” she cried. “You heard him! You could not ask for a more noble cause than that!”

Mel smiled, pleased indeed. “True love is the most noble thing in the world, I agree.”

“That is not what he said!” a voice boomed. 

They all jumped, and the wolf bared his teeth as Stannis burst from behind the curtain. “There is no such thing as true love!” he declared. “He distinctly said ‘toooo blaaave’. To blave means to bluff. Clearly they were either involved in a shady business deal or a card game and she wishes to win and _that_ is certainly not reason enough for a miracle.” He shoved himself between Mel and the table. “She will not be performing any miracles for you. Get out,” he ordered, “and take your corpse with you.”

“You filthy liar!” Mel shrieked and whirled on him, an ancient beautiful fury. Her blue eyes glowed, the ruby red jewel at her throat pulsing with light.

“Get back, witch!” he demanded, shielding his face with his arms and scurrying away like a scared rat. 

“I'm not a witch, I’m your wife!” she hissed. “And after the words you just uttered I am no longer sure I wish to be that anymore.” 

Stannis dropped his arms, all of him going weak at her threat. “I'm sorry, I—”

Miracle Mel fell against him, took his palms and pressed them to her heaving breast. “True love, my king,” she whispered. “He said ‘true love’. I know you heard it.”

He nuzzled at her face, soft kisses peppered over her pale skin as he groaned. 

Arya and the Hound could only stare wide-eyed and slack jawed at the pair, completely aghast by their display. Sure Mel was beautiful—flaming red hair that flowed down to her trim waist like a river of blood, creamy youthful skin that glowed like moonlight. Maybe beauty was her miracle? Maybe she _was_ a witch, bewitching men instead of working miracles.

The amorous pair continued to whisper and writhe against each other and Arya and Sandor eased up to the table, silently agreeing to snatch Jon and run.

“It’s not worth it if it doesn't stop them,” they heard Stannis murmured. “We swore to each other we would only work for that end. What good is true love against my brother and that brat of his, his bitch of a wife? All of them sitting on my throne!”

Arya froze. “Wait? Are you talking about the King? And Prince Joffrey?” 

Stannis threw up an accusing finger. “Do not say that name in this hut!”

Miracle Mel huffed out an exasperated sigh and pushed away from her husband. “Prince Joffrey,” she sang with a roll of her eyes. “Heir to the throne!”

“Melisandre! You swore to never breathe that name!”

“Joffrey, Joffrey, Joffrey!” she continued, chasing him as he ran around the table. 

Stannis fled behind the curtain, his hands going to his ears. 

“Wait!” Arya cried again and pointed at the man in black. “The Princess Daenerys… this is her true love,” she said, shaking her finger at him. “Bring him back and the wedding is off!”

Mel and Stannis whirled, mouths agape. “If she brings him back, Joffrey suffers?” he asked. “Cersei, Robert?”

Arya grinned. “Humiliations galore,” she breathed. 

Stannis shoved Mel toward the man in black. “Get to work, witch!”

  
  


—

  
  


“You can't be serious,” Arya said, appalled. 

The Hound was perturbed as well. “That's it? That lump of stuff?” 

“Trust me,” said Mel as she forced the chocolate covered lump down Jon’s throat. “The chocolate coating makes it go down easier.”

All night it had taken her, and half the day, to perform her miracle. Arya and Sandor had been sent out for this and that. Wood for the fire, water to bathe him, some herb to add to the flames. And for chocolate powder.

Arya had nearly lost all her patience watching the witch hover over the man in black, chanting her chants into the flames as she bathed his naked body and cut his hair. More than once she and Sandor were certain they'd brought the poor man to a place to suffer nothing but ultimate humiliation. The wolf was all that kept them there, and Arya’s stubborn hope. 

Her stubbornness would never wane, but the constant apt attention the wolf paid the witch had her feeling something a tad more than hope. It was as if he knew exactly what was happening, knew every unintelligible word that slipped from the witch’s lips and what it was doing. That he expected any moment for the man in black to wake.

“Redress him and get him to the keep," Melisandre instructed. "He’ll wake soon and be ready for a fight once the shock wears off.”

Behind Miracle Mel, her husband Stannis was rubbing his chin, a slow wicked smile spreading across his face. 

  
  


—

  
  


Long hours before, just as the sun was rising, Daenerys’ dozen handmaids had woken her. It was her wedding day and they meant for her to keep her title of Most Beautiful Woman in all of Planetos.

Through the steaming bath to plump and pink her skin, through the rubbing of lotions and creams to soften it, through the hours of brushing her moonlit hair and hours more of dressing, she sat, stoic by all appearances. Not a smile given, nor a word spoken. 

Some of the maids took it for nerves, for what woman wouldn't have nerves before her wedding. Others took it as the bearing of a true princess and were most proud to serve her. 

All of them were wrong. 

Behind the silence, behind the soberness, Daenerys was nothing more than constant calm. Firm, fixed, and faithful in her belief in Jon and their love. A love so deep and pure and true nothing would stop it. Nothing. 

It wasn't her wedding to Joffrey the maids prepared her for. She would never be his princess or his queen, or anyone's queen. 

Only Jon’s love. His Pirate bride.

  
  


—

  
  


Many, many hours before that the Prince sat behind his desk. Fingers twiddling and twitching as his green eyes gleamed and a satisfied smirk graced his pinched face. 

There had been no blood or bulging eyes, no panicked begging, things that always brought him such joy, things he craved. No, he had been denied those when her _sweet Jon_ had left the world, but he wasn't disappointed in the least. His scream of utter torment had been enough. More than enough. The pleasure it had brought him had been carnal, a corporeal thing that had filled him from head to toe and made him feel more alive than he ever had. And it still did. It was a sweet song that flowed through his mind, again and again, never ending and invigorating. 

He would tell her all about it when he wrapped his hand around her pretty throat, regale her with its magnificence as he sliced and stabbed at her skin, wintery cream sure to turn into crimson wine beneath his blade. 

He’d once dreaded taking a wife more than he dreamed possible, but now it couldn't happen soon enough. 

In fact…

He called for his Uncle Jaime and his summons was promptly answered. 

“Move the wedding up to half past five. To keep those Tully’s on their toes.”

  
  
  


—

  
  


The man in black was nearly stiff when they reached the wall just beyond the castle gate. It was almost five o’clock and Sandor had been carrying the corpse the whole way from Miracle Mel’s. Through the wood, down the backstreets, up the alleyways. He was ready to be done. Ready for some chicken and ale, something, anything to replace the feeling of a body growing stiff between his fingers. 

He’d wanted to club the man in black in the head for besting him on that mountain path, but he felt nothing but pity for him now, the poor bastard. He really hoped that witch knew her stuff and the man in black would come back to life again soon so he could get his true love, Arya could get her six-fingered man, and he could get some fucking peace for a change. 

“Prop him up somewhere and help me,” Arya said, her eyes focused on the top of the wall. 

The Hound leaned the man in black against the base of it, carefully. He didn't want him smacking the ground and busting his face or cracking his skull. He might need them later. The wolf was some help, sitting down and providing himself as a prop. 

With him secure Sandor gave a grunt and waited for Arya to jump onto his shoulders. He stood once she settled herself and went to climbing. Any crack in the wall was enough for his fingers; the least imperfection was all he needed. He climbed quickly, familiar with it now, and after a moment Arya was able to grab hold of the top and pull herself up. He dropped back down and checked on the man in black. 

Still where he’d left him. Still propped. Still dead. 

Arya crept along the wall. Far across the Keep’s grounds she could see the Gold Cloaks flanking the gate. There had only been twenty last she was told, now there were at least a hundred. Her heart wanted to falter, but she refused to let it. They had the man in black. Nothing could go wrong. 

Movement caught her eye and she spotted Varys waving her over to a shadowy spot some ways down the wall. She gave him a nod and dropped back down beside Sandor. “Get him and let's go,” she whispered, motioning for him to grab the corpse and follow her. 

Varys ushered them in through one of his secret passageways and wishing them all the best, left them hiding in some bushes behind a low wall, out of sight. 

They stared at the Gold Cloaks in their shining armor, with their sharp shining swords strapped to their hips. 

“That's more than twenty,” the Hound whispered.

“I know, but it doesn't make a difference,” Arya groaned, shifting out from under the man in black who had fallen over on her. She lifted his head up. “We have him.”

Sandor snarled and shifted the man in black up against the wall. “And what if this bastard doesn't wake up?”

The Hound didn’t have to wait long for his answer. 

The wolf whined just then, jumping to his feet and the man in black woke with a great gasp. 

Jon, utterly unnerved, took in the strange faces hovering above his with wide eyes. “Couldn’t beat me alone, you dastards! I beat you each apart! I’ll beat you both together!” he cried. 

“You're alive!” the small one exclaimed.

The large one fell onto his arse, his scarred face filled with fright. “Bloody fucking hells!”

An enormous ball of white fluff wedged itself between them and proceeded to lick his face. He tried in vain to push the beast away, but his body felt as if it were stuck in a sucking pit of mud. 

The trio finally gave him space and his eyes darted between them. “Why won't my arms move?”

“You’ve been mostly dead all day,” the large one grumbled. 

Well, that explained a few things.

It all came rushing back then. The Pit of Despair. His cage. The chains that held him down. Ramsay and the Machine. The Prince. 

He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't—

The girl drew close and shook him. “Hey, you're alright now. We had Miracle Mel make a resurrection pill to bring you back after Prince Joffrey and the six-fingered man killed you.”

_Killed him._ _Joffrey killed him. He died. He was dead and now he wasn’t._

Nothing made sense. His mind and body still spinning out of his control, just as they had been when he was hooked to the Machine. Most distressingly, panic seized him. “Who are you? Are we enemies? Why am I on this wall? Where's Dany?” he demanded of her in rapid succession. 

“I'm Arya. Arya Stark. We had a brilliant sword fight on the Cliffs of Insanity, remember?”

“And I’m the Hound,” the big brute told him. “You nearly strangled me to death not long after. Our boss had kidnapped your Princess.”

Vague and gauzy memories flitted through his head, but they didn't ease him. Not one bit. “That doesn't tell me why we're here or where Dany is.”

“Let me explain,” Arya began only to shake her head with a sigh. “No, there's too much. Let me sum up. Your true love is marrying the Prince in a little less than half an hour. All we have to do is get in, break up the wedding, steal the princess, and make our escape. _After_ I kill Lord Bolton.”

Jon scowled, the only thing his body would let him do, and studied over their predicament, thankful he had something to focus on other than the fact he’d died. “That doesn't leave us much time for dillydallying, does it?” he wondered, his thumb twitching on his chest. 

“You just wiggled your thumb!” the girl whispered gleefully. 

“I’ve always been a quick healer,” he muttered. And indeed he was. Already he could feel a tingle spreading throughout his body. He kept up his attempts to move while his mind worked on their dilemma. “What are our liabilities?” he barked at the girl, not caring he was being a bit harsh. He’d been murdered for gods sake, he could be cranky. 

“There's only one gate that works,” she said and grabbed him under his arm. The Hound jumped in to help and they lifted him up just enough he could see the gate and the dozens and dozens of men in front of it. “And it's guarded by a hundred men,” she added unnecessarily.

“What’ve we got?” he asked once they’d gently sat him down again. He probably had an ounce more hope than he should've, his toes had finally listened to his brain and were wiggling in his boots.

“Your brains, Sandor's strength, my steel, and the wolf too.”

His toes stopped wiggling. “That's it? That's _all?_ All we’ve got?” he asked, suddenly more than cranky, quite irritable in point of fact. 

The girl grew defensive. “We’ve been a bit busy I’ll have you know. First we had to get rid of the Brute Squad, then find you. And of course you were dead so we had to drag you to Mel’s. That took hours by the way, she had us traipsing all over the place to get her stuff to work her spell. To bring _you_ back to life. You're welcome by the way,” she sassed. “I'm sorry we don't have an army at our disposal.”

Jon wasn't swayed by her outburst. “It's impossible.”

“No,” she refused, adamant and ardent. “I am Arya Stark and I do not accept defeat, and neither do you. You're the Dread Pirate Roberts.” 

“I’m not. I'm just Jon. They broke me.” Whether she accepted defeat or not, he had. “Maybe if I had a month to plan, I _might_ be able to come up with something, but this…” He shook his head, utterly without hope. He wanted to lay down and die again. 

Sandor saw his head shake and smacked his shoulder. “Be happy. You just shook your head. You can't give up yet.” He really, _really_ wanted this keep storming business done. 

Jon rolled his floppy head around and glared at him through narrowed eyes. “My brains, your strength, her steel, and a wolf against a hundred Gold Cloaks, and you think a little head jiggle is supposed to make me happy?” he snarled. “Why didn't you just leave me dead? This is worse. Lying here bloody helpless while Dany marries that twiggy little bastard who murdered me!”

“Look, you just need to breathe a bit,” the girl said, attempting to soothe him, “calm down and think—”

“If we only had a damn wheelbarrow, at least that’d be something,” Jon growled. 

“Didn't Varys have a wheelbarrow?” Arya asked the Hound. 

“Aye, he was gonna put him in it,” he answered, pointing at Jon.

“Well why didn't you list that among our assets in the first place?” Jon grumbled through his clenched teeth and heaved a sigh. “What I wouldn't give for a holocaust cloak.”

The Hound reached into the pack slung over his shoulder and pulled out a roll of black fabric. “Will this work?” he wondered, holding up a rather nice holocaust cloak. 

Arya shot him a scowl. “Where’d you get that?” 

“I found it at the witch's while you were out getting the chocolate. Stuffed it in my pack when she wasn't looking.”

“You thief,” Arya snickered.

“Alright, alright. Help me up,” Jon cut over them, struggling in vain to stand. 

Arya and Sandor got him up and he wanted to cry at how floppy and useless he was. But he pushed it away. He’d sworn to Dany he would save her, and save her he would, useless body or not.

“Any chance either of you brought my sword?” he wheezed as they slung him between their shoulders. “I’ll need it eventually.”

“What in the seven hells for?” Arya scoffed, giving him an incredulous look he did not appreciate. “You can't even lift your arms.”

“Maybe not,” he admitted, his head flopping forward much to his distress. Sandor thankfully pulled it back for him. He gave him a small smile of gratitude. “But what others don't know, helps us.”

“I’ve got it, boy,” the brute grunted. “When you’re strong enough I’ll make sure you’ve got it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jon said. “Now, we might have some problems once we're in—” His head flopped again and Sandor's giant hand quickly palmed the top of it and held it firmly upright. 

“Hells yes we’ll have problems,” Arya snipped from beneath his useless left arm. “How do we stop the wedding? Once we do that, how do I find Ramsey? After I kill him, where will I find you again? Once we're together, how do we escape? Once we escape—”

“For godssake, girl!” the Hound boomed in his ear. “Hush your mouth and stop pestering him. He's been dead all day.”

Her eyes went wide and she ducked her head. “Sorry, I’m just excited. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

“Aye,” Jon sighed, “I know what you mean.”

  
  


—

  
  


“You get in the wheelbarrow and when we get you close enough, we’ll light you up,” Jon explained. “And then—”

“Light me up?”

“Aye.”

“You mean with that torch?”

Jon was beginning to wonder if the Hound wasn't quite all there in the noggin. Maybe he had deprived him of too much oxygen when he strangled him and it had left him permanently addled. 

“With the torch, yes,” he said slowly and clearly to help him out. “As big as you are, with that voice, those scars… _and_ a flaming cloak, they’ll scatter like—”

Arya jerked on his sleeve and he crumpled, taking both of them to the ground, her underneath, a great whoosh of air leaving her that was more than a little satisfying. He cut her a hard glare as he struggled to get back to sit up. 

“Sorry,” she groaned and gave him a hefty shove. “I keep forgetting.”

The Hound snatched him upright, Jon’s head snapping back and forward again, arms and legs flopping. “Bloody hells,” he groused, “I thought Joffrey and Ramsay were the torture twins. You two just might be worse.”

“I don't do fire, boy,” the Hound said, ignoring Jon’s whinging as he set him on his feet. “Come up with another plan.”

“Don't worry, Hound. I’ll do it,” Arya piped up as she jumped to her feet. 

Leaned into Ghost, a faithful crutch at his side, Jon looked between them with just his eyes. Saving energy was paramount. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I don't believe you’ll have _quite_ the effect we’re looking for,” he told the girl. 

She shrugged. “Maybe not, but my friend here is… Well, like he said, he doesn't do fire. And you’ll never be able to stay upright with this rolling,” she said and climbed into the wheelbarrow. She stuck her hand out toward the Hound. “Give me the cloak.”

Sandor for his part was struggling. Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ filled him with more terror than fire. He had half a mind to just go at the hundred Gold Cloaks all on his own, fists swinging. Surely that would distract them enough to let the girl and pirate slip inside. 

That was a fool’s hope and he knew it. They’d get slaughtered and it would be all his fault because he was a coward. He wouldn't let her die, not when she was so close to getting her revenge. And the Pirate, the Princess, they had suffered enough. He hated suffering.

“Get out,” he told the girl.

Arya tilted her head, the wolf and the pirate did as well. 

“I said get out,” he growled and put on the cloak. “You're too little, you wouldn't scare a fly.”

  
  


—

  
  


It was 5:23. Seven whole minutes before half past five and yet the Prince and his bride-to-be were kneeling before the aged Maester Pycell in a tiny sept tucked away in a small corner of the Red Keep. Joffrey had gotten things moving even faster than he’d hoped. 

It was 5:24 when the Maester began to speak.

And 5:25 when the screaming started outside the main gate. 

Dany smiled softly. Just as she knew he would, her sweet Jon had arrived to save her. 

  
  


—

  
  


It was not, in point of fact, her _sweet Jon_ who was causing all the commotion out front. Well, at least not all him. He was doing all he could to simply walk down the incline toward the main gate with only his sword for help. Ahead of him, Arya struggled with the heavy wheelbarrow, even though Ghost was pulling from the front, having stooped to being a sled dog. Inside the barrow, Sandor stood, arms stretched out wide and trembling. His knees were too, but thankfully, hopefully, the cloak hid his shame. 

He made his eyes blaze as Jon had told him, and his voice boom as loud as he could in hopes the Gold Cloaks would be more afraid than he was of what was coming. 

“I AM THE DREAD PIRATE ROBERTS AND THERE WILL BE NO SURVIVORS!”

Over and over he boomed, voice echoing and reverberating as his rage increased. For he was raging. Raging at his fear. A trick Jon had whispered to him as he’d climbed in the wheelbarrow. _Rage at the fear, Sandor. Drown it in rage._ So rage he did. Standing there, near ten foot tall with a voice to match, gliding down through the darkness. Ghost snarling and growling before him, red eyes glowing. 

Ser Jaime, from his position by the gate, was reasonably upset at the roaring giant and great direwolf gliding down toward them in the darkness. Not that he doubted his hundred men could dispatch with them. The upsetting thing was that the giant would be aware of that too and logically there must be somewhere in the blackness out there any number of giant helpers. Other pirates, or beasts. Who could tell? Still, his men held together staunchly and remarkably stoic.

It was only when the terrifying pair got halfway down the incline that things got too overwhelming.

The giant suddenly burst into flame. “NO SURVIVORS! NO SURVIVORS!” he roared in a manner that could only indicate deadly sincerity.

It was the flames that did it. Seeing him burn and roar and roar and burn. Once that happened, well, everyone panicked and ran… 

With the panic was well underway, Jaime realized he had next to no chance of bringing things under control. Besides the giant was terribly close now, and the roar of, “NO SURVIVORS!” made it very hard to do any solid thinking, but fortunately he had the sense to grab the one and only key to the gate and hide it on his person.

Fortunately too, Jon had the sense to look for such behavior. “Give me the key,” he insisted, pushing all of his meager strength into his voice. The threat worked mostly thanks to Arya and her skinny sword pressed to the knight’s throat. 

“I don't have a key,” Jaime was quick to reply. “I swear it on my mother's grave. May her soul forever sizzle in torment if I’m lying.”

Jon made a show of looking at the Hound. “Tear his arms off.”

Jaime, much to his shame, panicked and jerked the key from around his neck. “Oh, you mean this key?”

Arya lowered her sword and Jon managed to grab the key and pass it to Sandor. “Open the gate,” he said after Ser Jaime had ran off like a scalded dog. 

The Hound unlocked the gate and they all slipped through, Jon leaning heavily on Ghost and Arya. He was weak as a babe and ached all over. “Lock it and keep it safe,” he told Sandor and looked around. “It has to be 5:30 by now. We’ve got half an hour to stop the wedding.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sandor asked.

Before Jon could answer Arya had cried out and left him stumbling as she ran forward and readied her sword. Ramsay Bolton and four palace guards were rounding a corner and running toward them. The time was 5:34.

  
  


—

  
  


The wedding itself did not end until 5:31 and Joffrey had to use all of his persuasive abilities to get even that much accomplished. As the screaming from outside the gate burst all bounds of propriety the Prince interrupted the Maester with the gentlest manner possible to him. “Maester, my love is simply overpowering my ability to wait. Skip to the end of the service please.” 

The time is 5:27.

“Joffrey and Daenerys,” Pycell said, “I am very old and my thoughts on marriage are few, but I feel I must give them to you on this most happy of days.” 

The Maester could hear absolutely nothing, and had been so afflicted since he was eighty-five or so. The only actual change that had come over him in the past years was that, for some reason, his impediment had gotten worse so what everyone heard was this:

“Mawidge,” he said. “Vewy old….

Unless you paid strict attention to his title and past accomplishments, it was very hard to take him seriously.

“Mawidge,” he repeated.

“Again, Maester,” Joffrey bit out through clenched teeth and the tightest of smiles, “I interrupt in the name of love. Skip to the end, please.“

“Mawidge, that dweam wiffin a dweam.”

Daenerys was paying little attention to the goings on. Jon had to be racing down the corridors now. He always ran so beautifully. Back on the farm, long before she knew her heart, it has been good to watch him run. Even on the mountain path where she thought he meant her certain harm, he was beautiful as he ran and ran and ran.

Ramsay, the only wedding guest, was on edge due to all the commotion at the gate. Outside the sept door he had their four best swordsmen, so no one could enter, but still, there were a lot of people screaming where the Brute Squad and Gold Cloaks should have been. The four guards were the only ones left inside the keep, for the Prince didn’t need spectators to the events that were soon to happen. If only the idiot Maester would speed things along. It was already 5:29.

“The dweam of wuv wrapped wiffin the greater dweam of everwasting west. Eternity is our fwiend. Wemember that, and wuv, truu wuv wiw fowwow you fowever.”

It was 5:30 when the Prince stood up. “Man and wife!” he shouted at the Maester, “Say man and wife!”

Daenerys still was off within her head, imagining Jon rounding the final corner. Dashing dressed all in black, no doubt wearing his mask, his sword flashing as he dispatched all four of Joffrey’s guards with ease. She just hoped once he made it inside he would be pleased to see her after all his efforts. Those nightmares and sleepless nights had taken a lot out of her. 

“Man and wife,” she heard the Maester say quite clearly and only then noticed Joffrey on his feet. 

He reached down and yanked her to hers. “Thank you, Maester,” he said with a triumphant smile.

Dany was shocked into silence. _It couldn't be done. It just couldn't. They weren't married, they just weren't._

Joffrey had spun on Lord Bolton and whispered harshly in his ear. “Whatever the hells that is. Take care of it!”

Before his words were finished, Ramsay was running for the sept door. 

It was 5:31.

  
  


—

  
  


It took a full three minutes for the lord and the guards to reach the gate, and when they did, Ramsay could not believe what his eyes were seeing.

He had been right there, had seen it happen. Had seen Joffrey turn the dial, seen Jon’s body bow and bend and break beneath the Machine. Heard his death scream. Seen him limp and lifeless and altogether dead soon after. But there he stood, alive. 

He would've shouted with joy to have his plaything once more if he hadn't been quite so unsettled. Not only was Jon alive, but he had the direwolf with him, snarling and slavering, a giant brute of a man, scarred and scary, and also a girl. A girl he just might remember seeing through his executioner’s hood long ago, a girl whose scream he could still hear, for he had much enjoyed it. And she had revenge burning in her eyes.

“Kill them,” he ordered the guards, “but leave the one in black for questioning.”

The four guards drew their swords, but too late. Too late and too slow. The Hound and Ghost moved in front of Jon and Arya attacked, her swift blade blinding, and the fourth guard was dead before the first one had sufficient time to hit the floor.

Arya stood still a moment, panting, then made a smooth half turn toward Lord Bolton who stood frozen in front of them, his bright blue eyes narrowed. She readied her sword, slowly. “Hello,” she said and smiled. “My name is Arya Stark. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Ramsay, in reply, did a genuinely remarkable and unexpected thing: he turned and ran. 

  
  


—

  
  


Queen Cersei and her father Tywin arrived at the sept in time to see Lord Bolton leading the four guards in a charge down the corridor. 

“Oh dear, are we too early or too late?” she asked her son as they entered the sept and found Joffrey, the Princess, and Maester Pycell. “It was set at six, wasn't it?”

“There's been a lot going on,” the Prince said. “I’ll explain later, but at this very moment I need to be sure there isn't an attack from the Tully's underway.” Half of him knew there wasn't, but the other half had to wonder if somehow his fake plans had come to fruition through his will alone. That it could be her _sweet Jon_ was entirely out of the realm of possibilities afterall. 

“It isn't the Tullys,” Daenerys said, strong and sure, having cleared the haze of love from her mind for just a moment. “It's Jon. He’s come for me, just as I said he would.”

Joffrey nearly strangled her there and then. He jerked her close and hissed in her ear, “Your Jon is dead. I killed him myself.”

She didn't believe him, not for one moment. The truth was in his eyes. “Then why is there fear in your eyes?”

With a growl of rage Joffrey shoved her at his mother. “Take her to the bridal suite,” he ordered and ran off. 

Dany, for her part, walked slowly and peacefully between the Queen and her father. Jon may have not made it in time to stop the wedding, but he was there. She could feel him, sense him so very near, her heart simply trembled beneath her breast so near he was. He just needed a bit more time to get to her. He was just one man against a keep full of guards afterall. She'd give him that time and be ready to flee with him the moment he arrived. 

  
  


—

  
  


Arya, was so startled at Lord Ramsay's cowardice she simply stood frozen for a moment. 

“I knew that bastard was a coward,” Jon hissed behind her. 

She spun around and Jon flung a limp hand at her. “He doesn't stand a chance against you. Go get him.”

With a shout of thanks she gave chase, and while she was faster, the lord had made it through a doorway, slammed it shut and locked it, and Arya was helpless to budge the thing. “Sandor!” she shrieked desperately, “I need you!” She charged at the door, slammed and slammed her shoulder into the wood, but she was so skinny and the door was quite otherwise. “He’s getting away from me!” she screamed. “Please!”

Sandor was with Jon. That was his job, to stay with Jon and protect him while they looked for Dany. Jon for his part was walking, slowly, weakly, but he was walking and under his own power. 

“Go,” he said with a grunt of effort. “I’ll be alright, I’ve got Ghost.” And he did. The great wolf was staying with him step for step, Jon’s hand buried in the thick fur at the scruff of his neck for balance. His sword in the other, not that he thought he’d have to use it. If anyone showed up for a fight, Jon had no doubt the wolf would tear them limb from limb for him. 

The Hound took off in a lumbering run, Arya still shrieking for him to hurry. He made it to her and pulled her back from her pathetic attempts to break the door down before throwing his bulk into it. 

The door held.

“Sandor! Please!”

“Quit your whinging, I’ve got it,” he growled and took a few steps back. He drove his shoulder into the wood and it gave some. A little. But not enough.

He really backed up then and with a roar he charged across the corridor and just before he reached it, he jumped and both feet slammed into the door. It splintered to pieces and fell off its hinges. 

Arya ran through, yelling back her thanks as he picked himself up with a groan and went back to Jon. Only Jon wasn’t there, and neither was the wolf. No idea which way they went, Sandor chose a corridor and started his search. 

  
  


—

  
  


She was gaining on him. She could see flashes of the fleeing lord as she chased him from room to room, and even though he would be in the next by the time she reached the last, she was gaining ground. She knew in her heart after five long years she was about to be alone in a room with her revenge. 

Arya had no way of knowing Lord Bolton had a dagger on his person. Or that he was an expert with the thing. It took her until 5:41 before she actually cornered the bastard in some sort of dining room. But the moment she ran in…

Ramsay threw his dagger and it found its mark in the soft flesh of her middle. The force of the throw, of the steel burying deep sent her staggering back into a wall. The pain had her knees buckling and all she could think of was her father. 

“I'm sorry, father,” she gasped, already breathless from the loss of blood and pain. “I tried…”

Lord Bolton heard her whispers and knew he had been right. “You're the traitor's little brat,” he said smoothly, softly. “I heard you scream when I took his head. Saw you too, the tears streaming down your little cheeks, the pain written all over your face.” He was coming closer to her, slowly. “When we caught Jon at the Fire Swamp he mentioned someone was looking for me. It was you, wasn't it? You’ve been hunting for me all this time? And now you’ve failed?” He laughed, a horrible, horrible sound. “I think that's the worst thing I've ever heard. How marvelous.”

Arya could say nothing, there was too much pain. In her stomach, in her heart. 

  
  


—

  
  


The Queen and Lord Tywin had left Daenerys alone in the bridal suite, Joffrey's room to be exact. She paced the floors, waiting for them to be gone from the hall, waiting for her chance to get to her room instead. But a thought occurred to her as she paced and she felt a spark of pride at it. Jon would be so surprised. And hopefully pleased.

Quickly, she rummaged through Joffrey's wardrobe until she found a suitable set of pants and a tunic. Boots as well. That was the easy task. Getting out of her wedding dress on the other hand, that was a nightmare. She eventually had to retrieve a dagger from his desk to free herself from the folds and drapes and yards of heavy lace and silk and beads. The weight that left her when she stood bare in the white and blue puddle of fabric was akin to being back in Jon's arms after his three years of death. Last of all she threw down her crown. 

No more a princess, and never a queen. A pirate’s bride she would be. Jon’s love. 

She redressed in Joffrey's poached clothing, wishing they weren't his while also knowing no other man’s would have fit her so well if he weren't any more than a spindly sapling.

Her heart’s trembling was growing into a steady thump, strong and sure. Jon was close. So very close. She went to the balcony and took in the city, the bay beyond, searching for any sign of him. And she smiled. 

Between the moonlight and the glittering waters of the bay was a ship. A big beautiful ship with black sails. _The Revenge._

Dany slipped the dagger carefully beneath her belt and went to the door, cracked it open. No one in sight, she ran to her room to wait for her love.

  
  


—

  
  


“…sorry, Father… I'm sorry….”

_“Don't be sorry, remember your lessons,”_ her father's voice whispered in her ear. Then another's. Syrio’s. _“Don't be stupid, girl. Don't forget. What do you do with a wound?”_

“Cover it…” Arya pulled the dagger from her gut and stuffed her right hand into the wound. 

Her eyes began to focus again, not well, not perfectly, but enough to see Ramsay had drawn his sword and the blade was approaching her heart. She didn't have the strength for much, only managed to parry a bit, deflect the point of the blade into her left shoulder where it did no unendurable harm.

Ramsay was a bit surprised his attack had been deflected, but there was nothing wrong with piercing a helpless girl’s shoulder. There was no hurry when you had her.

Slowly, inch by inch, Arya forced her body up the wall, using her legs just for pushing, letting the wall do all the supporting that was necessary.

Ramsay chuffed. “Seven hells, are you really still trying?” He shook his head. “You’ve got an overdeveloped sense of vengeance, don’t you?”

He struck again, and for any number of reasons, though most probably because he hadn’t expected Arya's movements, he missed her heart and had to be content with driving his blade into her right arm.

She didn’t mind. She didn’t even feel it. Her left arm was where her interest lay, and she squeezed the familiar hilt and there was strength in her hand, enough to flick out at her enemy. Ramsay hadn’t expected that either so he gave a little involuntary cry and took a step back to reassess the situation.

Power was flowing up from Arya's heart to her left shoulder and down from her shoulder to her fingers and then into Needle and she pushed off the wall. 

“Hello…” she whispered. “My name is… Arya Stark. You killed… my father. Prepare to die.”

They crossed swords. Steel sang against steel.

Bolton went for a quick end, or tried. 

No chance. _Swish, clank, swish._

“Hello,” somewhat stronger now, “my name is Arya Stark. You killed my father… prepare to die…”

Again they crossed swords and Bolton moved to defend, because the blood was still streaming from his prey. 

She shoved her fist deeper into her stomach. “Hello, my name is Arya Stark; you killed my father; prepare to die.”

Ramsay retreated around the table.

Arya slipped in her own blood.

He continued to retreat, waiting, watching death creep closer to her. Enjoying her pain.

She followed. “Hello, my name is Arya Stark, you killed my father, prepare to die.” She dug with her fist and gave a grunt of pain. She didn’t want to think of what she was touching and pushing and holding into place. But for the first time she felt able to try a move. Her sword flashed forward.

_Swish, slash._

And there was a cut down Bolton’s right cheek.

Another flash.

_Swish._

Another cut, the other side, bleeding… 

“Hello. My name is Arya Stark. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

“Stop saying that!” Ramsay shrieked, fear finally filling his blue eyes. 

Arya drove for his left shoulder, just as he had hers. Then his right. “HELLO.” Strong now. So strong. “MY NAME IS ARYA STARK. YOU KILLED MY FATHER. PREPARE TO DIE!”

“No,” he whimpered, head shaking, backed against the wall. 

“Offer me money!” she shouted.

“Everything,” he whispered.

“Power too. Promise me that.” Smiling now.

“All I have and more. Please.”

“Offer me anything I ask.”

Blubbering and begging. “I’ll give you whatever you want.” 

“I want my father back, you son of a bitch!” Needle flashed again, drove deep.

Lord Bolton screamed.

“That was just to the left of your heart.”

She struck again. 

Another scream. 

“That was below your heart. Can you guess what I’m doing?” 

A gasp, faint. Blood pouring free. “Cutting my heart out.”

She slid Needle deep, slowly. “You took mine when I was ten, I take yours now.”

He screamed one final time, a pitiful wail, and fell dead. Not from his wounds, not from the pain, not even from the blood loss. But from the fear.

She stared down at him. His face frozen, petrified and ashen, blood pouring from his wounds. His eyes bulging wide, full of horror and pain. It was glorious, if you like that kind of thing. 

Arya loved it. 

She staggered from the room, heading she knew not where or for how long, only hoping that whoever had been guarding her lately would not desert her now… 

  
  


—

  
  


Daenerys didn’t have to wait. 

When she opened her door her heart simply burst with joy. There was her love, waiting for her. Her sweet Jon, lying on her bed as easy as he pleased.

She rushed to him, expecting to be met in a wild embrace, much as they had down in the ravine, or once free from the Lightning Sand. Instead, he only smiled at her, _her smile,_ and remained where he was, propped on her pillows, a sword at his side. And an enormous white wolf as well.

Too happy to care he didn't come to her, she carried on with her rushing and fell onto him. “Oh, Jon, I knew you’d come. My sweet Jon,” she cooed and cried, kisses and more kisses peppered over his pretty face. But his arms weren’t around her as they should’ve been. “Jon, why won’t you hold me?”

“Gently,” was all he said, whispered really.

She continued to kiss him, grasped his face and brought his lips closer to hers. “At a time like this, that’s all you can say? Gently?”

“ _Gently!”_ he repeated, not so gently himself.

She let him go at the command and his head fell with a hard thunk into her headboard. He gave a grunt of pain.

It was then she noticed some things. His pretty face for one. It was pale and wane and scattered with fresh scars. His beautiful raven curls were a mess, half tied back, most of it falling here and there. And he was still dressed in the same torn shirt he’d been in a month before. The day she left him at the edge of the Fire Swamp.

Even though they were together again, fear took her. 

“Jon, my love, what happened to you?” she whispered. “You didn't arrive on that ship out there, did you?”

“What ship?”

“The beautiful one in the bay. Huge, black sails.”

His eyes fluttered closed and opened once more, so soft and stormy and sweet. “I didn't, but I’ll explain later. First, come here.” 

She leaned close, her nose brushing his and she felt the sudden rush of burning at the backs of her eyes. 

Jon, for his part, felt it too. Felt for the first time since dying, true happiness, bright and clear, it had fled from him and when you’re left alone without it, you forget that no blessing compares. “Closer,” he whispered.

She pressed her lips to his and her tears fell as he finally kissed her back, slowly and tenderly, his arms taking her in, a long sigh of contentment leaving him. And of course Dany felt it too, the complete and utter relief of being whole once more, so deep it ran she thought she might drown in it.

“I love you,” he breathed, a gentle hand coming up to cup her beautiful face. He’d missed it so.

A soft sob left her and she kissed him again. “I love you too.”

He grinned then, his hands having run down her sides, over her tunic and further still to the tight fitting pants covering her arse. “What is this you’re wearing?”

Her face heated, but she sat up so he might see her better. “I thought it best suited for escaping in.”

“Clever girl. It definitely suits you.”

She smiled and turned to see the wolf watching them curiously, though silently. “And who is this?” she asked, a slow hand held out to the beast. 

Jon smiled as Ghost licked her offered hand then closed his red eyes as she gave him a scratch under his ear. “A friend I found not long after the Fire Swamp,” he told her. “He’s been keeping me company.”

“He's beautiful,” she told him with a glance and turned back to his furry companion. “Thank you for staying with him when I couldn’t,” she whispered to the wolf. Ghost licked her nose and her bell like laughter filled Jon’s ears and settled around his heart.

He managed enough strength to squeeze her thigh. “You best gather some things. We don't have much time.”

Worry took her and she was up from the bed and doing just as he’d asked, packing a small satchel with a few gowns, some shoes, and her brush. 

“Don't forget the dragon eggs,” Jon said from the bed and she spun around, surprised. 

“How ever do you know about those?”

“Another story, for another time,” he answered as she retrieved them from under her bed where she’d hidden them. 

She sat beside him and opened the case, smiling down at the three beautiful glittering eggs. “Aren’t they amazing?”

“They are,” he replied, his voice strained.

Her heart seized and she forced herself to meet his stormy eyes. “You’re upset with me, aren’t you? For getting married. I tried to stop—"

“You didn't get married,” he corrected her. “Not before the old gods, or any others.” He shook his head. “It never happened.”

“But I did,” she argued though it broke her heart to do so. “The Maester pronounced us man and wife.”

“Did you say I do?” he murmured, almost sleepily.

“No,” she answered, she was sure of that. “He never asked me to.”

Jon just smiled, and then so did she, until she didn’t. 

“Joffrey believes we are, he won’t take this well.” She moved to leave the bed again, to pack the eggs, but Jon held her still, one hand clasped around her wrist.

“Widows happen. Every day— _"_ A deep growling filled the room and Jon turned his gaze to the door. “Don’t they, Your Highness?” 

Dany’s head whipped around to see the Prince standing in her doorway, his face livid and his sword drawn. “To the death!” he cried.

“No!” Jon corrected, all the strength back in his voice. “To the pain.”

Joffrey's face twisted with confused rage. “What bloody nonsense—”

“I’ll explain,” Jon cut over him fiercely, “and I’ll use small words so you’ll be sure to understand, you warthog faced buffoon.”

The Prince scoffed. “You dare insult me? The man who murdered you, I might add.”

Dany gasped and gripped Jon’s hand. Ghost leapt from the bed and stalked Joffrey as Jon stared him down, still lying pleasantly upon the bed. “It won't be the last,” he assured him. “To the pain means the first thing you lose will be your feet. The left, and then the right. Below the ankle. Then your hands, at the wrist. Next your nose.”

“And then my tongue I suppose,” Joffery groaned. “I killed you too quickly the last time. A mistake I don’t mean to duplicate again,” he threatened despite Ghost’s vicious growl.

“I wasn’t finished!” Jon snapped. “The next thing you lose will be your left eye, followed by your right.”

The Prince sighed dramatically. “And then my ears, I understand! Let's get on with it!”

“Wrong!” Jon roared. “Your ears you keep and I’ll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish— every babe that weeps in fear at your approach, every woman that cries, ‘Dear gods, what is that thing?’ will echo forever in your _perfect_ ears. That is what ‘to the pain’ means. It means that I leave you to live in anguish and humiliation. Wallowing in freakish misery forever.”

Joffrey had paled considerably during Jon’s speech, and now he swallowed deeply. “I think you're bluffing,” he tried with a fair bit of bravado. 

“It's possible, pig,” Jon allowed. “I might be bluffing. It's conceivable, you miserable vomitous mass. I'm only lying here because I lack the strength to stand.” He paused, mostly for effect, but also to gather the power he needed to rise from the bed. Once he had, he grinned just so. “Then again, perhaps I have the strength afterall.”

Slowly, carefully, through stubbornness alone, he stood and raised his sword to Joffrey's nose. “Drop. Your. Sword.”

The Prince’s eyes blew wide and steel clattered against stone. 

Jon pointed his sword to a chair across the room. “Have a seat,” he suggested, strongly. 

Joffrey's skinny arse was in it a breath later. 

“Tie him up,” Jon told Dany and she jumped to do just that, Ghost assuring their prisoner didn't move a muscle, snarling and slathering in his face. 

“I wasn't afraid of you,” the Prince scoffed as Dany tied his hands to the arms of the chair. “I'm still not. I’ll have much more fun hunting you down and killing you again.”

“Is that so?” Jon asked and leaned against the bed post. _Gods, he was tired._ “You’ll never find us.”

“I will, when you least expect it,” Joffrey insisted. “You’ll round a corner and there I’ll be,” he threatened.

Jon laughed, though it was a quiet, pitiful effort. “I'm the King of the Sea, I’ll await you with pleasure.”

There was noise at the door and Arya stumbled in. “Where's the Hound?” she asked, before Jon could ask over her wounds. 

_Fucking Ramsay._

“I hoped he was with you,” he answered.

Dany had finished securing her _not_ husband to the chair and rushed to Arya's side.

"Princess," she greeted her.

"Dany," she corrected. “What's happened to you?” The sight of so much blood from such a small girl was shocking to say the least.

“Lord Bolton,” Arya answered with a gasp as Daenerys removed her hand from her stomach and replaced it with a wad of sheet torn from her bed. 

“Is he dead?” Jon asked. 

“He is,” she replied. 

He smiled. “I'm happy for you.”

“Aye, and I’d like to be happy for you. So we're not leaving this one alive, are we?” she asked, stumbling over and pressing her skinny blade into Joffrey's skinny neck. 

“Please, let's not,” Dany implored him, adding her dragon eggs to the satchel, her blue eyes hopeful. “Let’s kill him, as slowly as possible,” she said, and Jon, not until that very moment had ever thought a blood thirsty bride would bring him such joy.

“You can't kill me!” Joffrey shrieked. “I'm the Prince.”

Jon was wholly unimpressed. “You’ll have to forgive me for changing my mind, Your Highness, but I’m not one to disappoint a lady. Let alone two at once.” He looked between Dany and Arya. “Shall I do the honors, or would one of you rather? I think we’re all equally deserving.”

“I’d be more than happy to,” Ayra said, “but I’ve had a good bit of revenge tonight. I’m fine with someone else having some.”

Jon and Daenerys shared a look and his heart leap to see a wicked smile take her beautiful face. “My love,” she said, “is there any chance you have some Wolfsbane with you?”

Quickly, well, not so quickly, Jon searched his person, and gave a very small crow of joy when he felt a familiar little packet within his pocket. _Bless you, Varys._ He pulled it out, smiling brighter than he had in an age. 

Dany jumped into action, retrieving a goblet and filling it with wine before returning to his side. She held it out and Jon poured in the poisonous powder. She gave it a swirl or two for better mixing. “We'll do it together. I’ll hold his mouth open, you do the honors,” she said and passed him the goblet. 

He watched with pleasure as she grasped the Prince’s head and tilted it back as he shouted and struggled and squirmed against her and his bindings, against the death that was stalking him. Arya laughed as her sword dug deeper into his throat and Joffrey stilled, eyes bulging as he followed Jon’s movements drawing closer and closer. 

“She loves me, and I love her,” he began as he slowly came to stand between Joffrey's twiggy legs, a smile of triumph on his face. “And you, with all your power, and all your gold, and all your men in your fancy keep… You will die alone and afraid and in terrible pain knowing we will live out our days in true happiness, and so I think no one will suffer a loss as great as you.”

He poured the wine and Wolfsbane down the skinny little bastard's screaming throat and Dany clamped his mouth closed, holding on with all the strength she had as he fought to free himself. The vengeful trio waited and watched with bated breath for death to take him and soon enough it arrived. Crawling up his neck, red and ravaging, turning him to purple marbled stone, foam flowing from his gaping and gagging throat.

He had barely gone limp when they heard a deep shouting from outside.

“Roberts! Arya!”

Dany made it to the window first and spotted the Hound on the ground below, the reins of four white horses in his hand. She smiled down at him with a wave. “Hello, again.”

“Hello, lady,” he returned, actually smiling. “They with you?”

She nodded and just then both of her companions reached the window as well. “How are we going to get down?” she asked. 

“We’re gonna jump,” Arya said. “Hound,” she called down to him.

“You look like shit, girl.”

“Aye. That’s why you better catch me.” She climbed up into the window and looked back at Jon and Dany with a grin. “See you down there.” With that she turned her body and fell. 

Of course Sandor caught her and gently placed her onto one of the horses before moving back under the window to catch his next escapee, but Ghost jumped, landing on his own feet with grace, leaving Jon and Dany to follow. 

“Ready for our next adventure?” he asked her.

She cupped his cheek. “As long as you’re with me, I’ll go anywhere.”

He kissed her then, though too quick for her liking. “After you, love,” he said and waved his hand out the window.

“No, you first,” she insisted gently. “I know you aren’t feeling yourself, so don’t argue.”

Jon shook his head. “I’m not leaving you up here alone.”

She looked back at Joffrey, who was still very much dead. “Jon, he can’t hurt either of us anymore. Go.”

“And what’s to stop one of his men from coming through that door once I’m out this window.”

“You are so stubborn,” she scolded him with a scowl.

He gave her a cheeky grin. “And you love me for it.”

“I do. I really do,” she agreed, unable to keep her smile contained. “Hurry?” she asked as she climbed onto the window ledge. 

“As you wish.”

She kissed him and let herself fall.

Not two minutes later they were all mounted on the whites and riding for freedom. Unfortunately, they were barely through the gate when they were brought up short. The courtyard was filled with soldiers. Luckily for them, they weren’t Gold Cloaks, though Jon didn’t recognize the banners either.

Two rode forward to meet them. A stern looking man in armor and a lady, all dressed in red to match her scarlet hair, a shining ruby at her throat. 

“Whoever you are, we aren’t looking for a fight,” Jon told the pair with all the strength he could muster. 

The lady smiled at him, something knowing in her eyes that felt very much like fingers ticking up his spine. ‘‘‘Tis good to see my miracle worked,” she said with a voice as smooth as thick cream.

Startled, Jon looked between Arya and the Hound to confirm the lady’s claim and they both gave him a nod. He turned back to her and gave a deep nod. “You have my gratitude, my Lady,” he thanked her.

“And mine as well,” Daenerys added.

The man at the lady’s side rode a step forward. “The Prince?” 

“Dead. Lord Bolton as well,” Jon answered.

“Then it is us who owe you our gratitude. I’m now free to take back the realm from those who stole it.”

Jon nodded, though he wasn’t the least bit interested in any squabbles for a throne or crown. “Enjoy your reign,” he told him. “We’re going to sea, and if things go well you won’t be hearing from us anytime soon. Never in fact, if at all possible.” 

“Safe travels,” Melisandre bid them all.

With that they rode off, the Hound leading them to Blackwater Bay and the _Revenge._ They weren’t quick, but fast enough considering Arya’s injuries and Jon’s lack of strength. Just as he’d hoped, his ever faithful crew was waiting at the docks as if they’d known he was coming. 

“Yara,” he greeted his First Mate as he slid from the saddle, thankfully without falling on his face. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.”

“Aye, Captain. I can say the same of you as well. We were beginning to worry.”

“You weren’t the only one,” he chuckled as Dany slipped herself beneath his arm to help him stand. “Got us ready to sail?”

“Aye, Cap,” Yara answered. “Always.”

“Let’s get on with it then.” He looked toward the Hound and Arya, the latter draped limply over the former's arms. “Get them to Sam if you would, she needs tending to, quickly.”

Yara waved for them to follow her up the plank, but Arya gave a groan and Sandor stopped. “Are we gonna be pirates now?” she asked Jon weakly, but smiling all the same.

He chuckled softly. “I’d say you certainly have a hefty start, my friend.”

“Good thing I like ships then,” she whispered and Jon threw his head towards the ship for Sandor to hurry. Yara was already aboard, barking orders and calling for Sam.

“Will she be alright?” Dany asked him quietly as they began the slow trek up the plank, Ghost following behind. 

“Aye, my man Sam has patched up many a sword and dagger wound. Never lost a one of us. It's his specialty,” he assured her.

“And Yara?” she prodded. 

"My First Mate? What about her?”

Even in the moonlight, and from only the corner of his eye, he could see his love turning a particular shade of green. “And how long has she been your _First Mate?”_

Jon laughed, simply could not help himself, so absurd was her implication. Though of course, Dany had no way to know she was being absurd. Still, her _greenness_ filled him with so much laughter and so much joy, he found himself jumping off the plank and onto the deck before spinning around to sweep her into firm embrace. Her glinting eyes and clenched jaw, the stiff way she held herself away from him, all clear signs of her vexation, did nothing but make him smile and love her all the more. She was perfect.

His Pirate Bride.

He nuzzled his nose against her cheek. “You need not worry, my feisty minx. I can promise you that. Only you have ever held my heart.”

She pulled back, stared at him with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps, but there is more to you than just your heart, Jon Snow.”

He laughed again, but quickly controlled his mirth, else Sam would very likely be stitching him up as well. She still had that dagger at her hip after all. “I shall tell you a secret, my love, but you must swear never to tell another soul.”

“And what secret is that?”

He breathed it into her ear and delighted in her gasp, her wide eyes and her perfect mouth forming a perfect O _._ He nodded and winked. “I'm the one who should be worried. I shall have to keep a very close eye on her. My bride is the most beautiful woman alive afterall."

Her smile returned and her arms slipped around his neck. “Never worry. If death cannot stop true love, neither will a First Mate.”

  
  


—

  
  


A stressfully spent hour later—the _Revenge_ slipping through the Narrow Sea and quickly away from their land of torment, the Hound and Ghost pacing the deck, Dany cradling Jon’s head in her lap as he rested and repeatedly assured their large friend their little one was in the best of hands—Sam assured them Arya Stark would live and they finally felt it safe to retreat to Jon’s quarters. 

Dany wasn't surprised to see that it was rather simply adorned. No rich fabrics, no treasures. But there were books. Many, many books. They all made her smile.

“I really think I just might sleep for a few weeks,” he sighed from where he stood by his bed untying his sword from his waist.

She crossed the room as he propped the blade in the corner and gently led him back to the bed and pushed him down to sit before kneeling at his feet and working to remove his boots. “Are you going to tell me what they did to you?” 

“Who?”

Sea blue eyes stared into his. “Jon.”

“I’d really rather not.”

She stood and held his sweet face in her hands. “Alright, you don't have to, not if you don’t want to. Perhaps later.”

He nodded, relieved, because truly, he never wished to think of his time in despair and death ever again. 

Daenerys had stepped between his spread thighs and was tugging gently at his shirt. He took the hint and helped her free himself of it. He wasn’t expecting her gasp, she'd seen him shirtless many times in their youth, he looked the same, or so he thought. Her tears told different. He followed her gaze and saw what sparked them, and her gasp. His chest was riddled with new scars. 

_The cups. The Machine._

Trembling fingers brushed softly against the worst of them, one just over his heart. “It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t stepped in, if I’d let you handle him—”

“Hush,” he shushed her and drew her close, brought her down onto his lap. He would not have her bearing the weight of his death again. Three years of sorrow was enough. “It’s not your fault. You did the right thing.”

She was crying in earnest now, fat tears running down her cheeks and breaking his heart. “How can you say that? Look at you. He did that to you, I know he did, and all because of me,” she whispered.

He kissed her, soft presses of his lips against her cheeks. “Shhhh, my love. I swear to you, your choice saved me. If you hadn’t done what you did, I wouldn’t be here, and neither would you. Aye, I would’ve liked to skip from then to now and not had all the in between, but it got me to you and that’s all that matters.”

“I’ll never not be sorry.”

“And I will never change my mind. It wasn't your fault,” he swore. “They’re dead, they’ll never hurt us again. Let's forget them and just be together as we’ve always wanted.”

“Forever?” she whispered.

“Aye, forever. I died once, and I don't have the slightest intention of ever doing it again.”

“Shall we each promise to outlive the other then?” she asked. “To never die, to never stop loving?”

Sweetly, and with the softest of smiles, he answered her, “As you wish.”

Her smile once again returned. “You know, we’ve only kissed.”

“Aye,” Jon replied as her fingers slipped into his hair. 

Not getting an answer she expected, nor wanted, Dany tried again. “We’ve certainly had more than our share of adventures, no one can deny it. And true love… to have that, we must be the most blessed of creatures.”

“Surely the most blessed,” he agreed. 

“But,” Dany said, trying for frivolity, “thus far the simple fact that shines out is this: _we have only kissed.”_

“What else is there?” Jon asked. He touched his lips slightly to her cheek, and sighed. “Surely there could be nothing more.”

This was somewhat disingenuous on Jon’s part, because he had been King of the Sea for several years and, well, things happened. That and he loved teasing her. They could be happy now, wallow in their happiness in fact, and what was happier than lovers teasing one another?

“Silly lad,” she told him, smiling. “I have enough knowledge for us both. Of course, I should, considering all those lessons on lovemaking I had learning to be a proper princess.”

She had taken many lessons, but since Joffrey had instructed her instructors to teach her nothing whatsoever, Dany, though she smiled, was terrified.

Jon, for his part, smiled as well. “Is that so? I'm anxious for your lessons then.”

She looked at his perfect face and thought that, more than anything, she wanted this to go as it had in her heart and dreams so many times before. But what if she failed? What if she was just another case of big-talk, little-do and eventually he would tire of her, leave her? No, it was Jon and she would not be afraid.

“I know so much it is hard to be sure just where the best place to begin is,” she quipped. “If I go too fast, raise your hand.”

He waited and when he saw the helplessness in her eyes he realized he had never loved her quite so much, or so deeply. “Will you try not to laugh at me?” he asked shyly.

“I would never embarrass a beginner such as yourself. It would be cruelty itself to mock your ignorance when I, of course, am totally wise.”

“Do we begin standing up, or lying down?”

“A very good question,” Dany said quickly, not having the least notion what else to say. “There’s great controversy as to which.”

“Well, perhaps it would be wise to cover both contingencies,” he suggested and lifted her to her feet. “And since you're now standing, I think… correct me, my wise love, if I am wrong, but shouldn't these be discarded?” he asked and tugged at her pants. 

“What a clever pupil you are,” she praised, her cheeks turning a delightful pink. 

Jon slowly rid her of the offending garment, but left his own in place, and her tunic as well so that she might keep her modesty and courage. 

“If we were to lie down,” he said as he laid back on the bed, “would we start close together, or far apart?”

“Again, great controversy,” she replied. “You see, one of the problems with knowing so much is one sees both sides.”

He smiled at her. “You're being very patient with me, I appreciate it.” He held his hand out to her. “We could try lying close together and _experiment_ more or less. Does that sound right?”

Dany took his hand and joined him on the bed. “My teachers were all in favor of experimenting.”

They were very close now. The breeze, seeing this, knowing what they had been through, thought it might be nice to caress them through the open windows that banked his bed. The stars saw it also and thought it might be nice if they twinkled awhile longer. The moon went along with the whole notion and slipped half behind a cloud. Dany still held his hand and wondered for a moment if it would be wise to stop and tell truths, to allow him more rest and try again another night. She was about to suggest just that, but then she looked into his eyes. They were the color of the sea before a storm and what she saw in them gave her the courage to continue. 

“Love me, Jon?” she whispered against his perfect mouth.

“As you wish.”

  
  



End file.
